Author: catherinemryan

Pffffffth—I blew a raspberry on Edie’s bare belly. Pffffth—one on her cheek—pffffth—another on her belly—pffffth—again on her stomach.

After a few rounds, her smiles turned into the most sustained giggles she’s had so far. They made me laugh all the harder.

A few hours later, Edie was nursing when a school bus rumbled by the open window. The heavy chains that hang behind the tires crashed together as the bus turned the corner. Edie popped off and looked straight at me. Her eyes were big and round and searched mine. Her surprise was so complete that I couldn’t help but laugh again.

It had been a wonderful day. But Edie was so busy living every moment with abandon that she couldn’t be bothered with napping.

I knew it was coming. Later that night, she dissolved into meltdown mode. She cried but wouldn’t eat or sleep or play. I set her down on the bed to change my pants and the 45 seconds or so I wasn’t holding her sent her over the edge. She cried so hard that she was choking, and tears spilled out of her eyes.

I buckled Edith into her front carrier and got outside as quickly as I could. Within a few minutes, the bouncing rhythm of my step soothed her to sleep.

I, on the other hand, didn’t calm down as quickly. As I charged up the hill near our apartment, I stayed frustrated. I hadn’t been able to put Edie down for hours and my back hurt. I was mad at Eric for having to work later than expected. I felt terrible for slamming the door behind me when I stepped outside: The noise had scared poor Finn and I heard him barking when I walked down the steps.

I neared the top of the hill. The western sky was pink, and trees and rooftops stood out in black relief against the sunset. I remembered Edith’s giggles and the tiny “o” of her mouth when she was startled out of her nursing reverie.

The extremes of the day—first delight and hilarity, then frustration and hysterics—were as stark a contrast as the rosy sunset and shadowed skyline.

Most days with an infant are like this. Edith’s temperament changes from cheerful and gurgling to wailing in an instant, and she swings back and forth even more often than I change diapers.

The challenge for me, then, is riding the ebb and flow of her moods. It’s easy to get worked up when she’s screaming and nothing seems to calm her. But I want to be the kind of mother who stays flexible to meet the needs of a mercurial baby.

I was halfway there. When the usual rocking, shushing, bouncing, nursing and pacing didn’t calm Edith, I laced up my shoes and took her for a walk. And it worked. But I’d also acted in anger when I slammed the door.

Days with a baby are seldom equable. But maybe the raw-throated screaming makes me appreciate the giggles even more. Or maybe not. I’d probably love Edith’s laughs just as much if she were always calm. But she’s not. She’s a back and forth baby, and that’s ok. She’s my baby and I love all of her.

Rain poured outside and flooded the streets of Portland, but inside a dimly lit tapas bar, four other ladies and I toasted to the upcoming marriage of one of my oldest friends, Rose. As I sipped a caipirinha, I boasted that I had showered, put on makeup and worn my hair down (for the first time since having Edie) for the occasion.

Another woman laughed. “Wow, you paint quite the picture of motherhood,” she said. I laughed, too. It says a lot about my newly altered life that I feel a need to take a selfie to document the rare night I wear earrings.

It got me thinking about what early motherhood looks like, and what new moms show, to those on the outside.

Saturday night during the bachelorette party, I did not mention that it took most of the afternoon to stop crying long enough to put on mascara. Edie hasn’t been gaining weight, and Saturday she barely ate. Every time she screamed against my breast sent me into a new bout of tears. I was sure I was doing something wrong. I resorted to nursing her while standing up and swaying; it calmed her just enough to eat for a few minutes at a time.

I kept the day’s travails to myself because I didn’t want to dampen the mood, but it’s more than that: I want to project the image of myself as the kind of mom who has her shit together (and can feed her child, for crying out loud).

Throughout Saturday, I wanted to bail on Rose’s party. I felt like a mess. When Edie and I have a tough day, I want to hole up at home. I leave my hair in a bun and stay in what Eric calls my Kurt Warner sweats (on account of the droopy butt). I tend to withdraw into a cocoon where it’s safe and warm.

When I’m feeling vulnerable, the last thing I want is to zip myself into something more form-fitting than an oversized t-shirt.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. I don’t usually see moms with tear-blotchy faces out in public. This is whom I do see: Moms wearing Lululemon pants meeting at the café to walk their kids in schmancy strollers.

We—the general we, the public—hear about the hard times of parenthood (diaper blowouts, sleepless nights, blah blah blah) but don’t witness them. It’s easy to fall into the mental trap of assuming that after the initial infant crash course, parenthood becomes a breeze.

Yes, the Ryan Gregory household runs much more smoothly than in those first few weeks. But just because we close our desperate moments behind an apartment door doesn’t mean they don’t happen.

Perhaps I need to remind myself that those yoga-toned moms at the coffee shop also let their crying echo against the shower walls sometimes, and that it’s ok for me to go out—and it may even do me some good—with or without tear-smudged skin.

When Edie urped an entire meal all over the brand-new outfit my mom and I had just put her in, I pushed away the disappointment that several ounces of milk was now dripping down the front of her onesie and my mom’s arm. I could care less about the extra laundry; I regretted the meal no longer in Edie’s belly.

I’m still trying to get over the feeling that my milk is in short supply. After almost two months of cringing through every minute she nursed, I saw each drop that she drank as a victory. We recently had another scare that she wasn’t gaining enough weight, which has me even more on edge.

I want to capture the drops that trickle down Edith’s chin after a feeding. I scrape out the fatty milk stuck to the sides of bottles like a kid licks the ice cream bowl clean so none is wasted. Seeing any milk spill, let alone cascading as spit-up, makes me want to dissolve. Thankfully, Edie Mae has spit up only about a half-dozen times since she was born.

The morning that Edie urped on her striped onesie, instead of ruing her volcanic reflexes, I laughed. Edie seemed unperturbed; she just looked at me with her signature serious face as the drool-milk pooled where my mom’s arm met Edith’s belly. When I got Edie to the nursery for a quick wardrobe change she smiled, too.

She didn’t care that spit-up had soaked through her clothes. Maybe she liked the feel of the fuzzy changing pad on her bare skin or the face-to-face time with her mama. As I slipped a pink and ruffled onesie over her head, she squealed and enjoyed the moment. I did, too.