Being a first time mom was the greatest adventure I have ever undertaken. It was filled with new experiences, extreme emotions and unparalleled exhaustion.
During my pregnancy people offered me advice. Some of the advice was excellent and it could have served as a warning for what was to come. Some of the advice was terrible. I discarded the good advice and the horrendous advice with equal zeal. Discarding the good advice was my survival mechanism. If I had taken the good advice to heart I would have panicked, lost my way and eventually strayed into oncoming traffic.
Instead, I reveled in preparing for a beautiful new baby who would change my life in ways that I could not possibly have imagined. I created dreams for my child and hopes for his future. It was common for me to indulge myself in the imagined ease of having an infant to love and cuddle. The hopes and dreams are mine for a lifetime. The tranquility of mothering was mine for the two days I spent in the hospital while the nurses and doctors tended to me and my newborn.
After three days the hospital forced me to take my child home. My fantasies vanished as rapidly as my waistline had and the joy of sleepless nights, profound exhaustion, and tiny cries filled my world. I was grateful that I had taken a shower before I left the hospital because it was the last time I snuggled up to soap and shampoo for several days.
My life underwent a metamorphosis rivaled only by the challenge I undertook when I vowed to love, honor, and change my spouse. The results were similar. Just as my lofty ideals about changing my spouse did not materialize, neither did I realize my carefully laid plans to maintain control over my environment.
When we first brought the baby home from the hospital my husband seemed like an angel. He popped out of bed to retrieve the baby from the bassinet and he made bottles and changed diapers at 2:48 am. Then, like all men, he became weary. As he succumbed to his exhaustion his enthusiasm for parenthood waned. At the height of his decline he teetered on the edge of infancy and I had trouble telling him apart from the baby. I resolved this confusion by reminding myself that only the baby wore diapers.
As the days and nights passed I developed a stamina that defied logic. In the face of severe sleep deprivation I did everything that needed to be done on exactly 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep per night. Surprisingly, my husband did not keep pace. My sleep deprivation was compounded by my body’s decision that it was time to stop producing the adrenaline that had kept me going for the past three weeks. My hormones plummeted to normal levels and I began to cry. First I cried over the 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep I was getting. Next I cried because I now knew that a 40 year old man and a newborn could legitimately be considered twins.
When I stopped crying long enough to look in the mirror I was reminded that I was no longer pregnant. The body staring back at me seemed flawless. I was consoled until I tried to put on a pair of pants. The crying resumed. I realized I had to choose between continuing to wear my maternity clothes verses appearing in public naked.
My thoughts immediately turned to diet and exercise. I quickly discarded the idea of exercise because that would require me to return to the gym in exercise clothing. Instead I embraced the idea of dieting and considered an expensive weight loss plan. I abandoned this approach when I realized that the only action I needed to take to lose weight was to put a fork full of food near my mouth. When I did, the baby cried. My husband’s meals were not interrupted because he did not choose to hear the baby cry. He instinctively knew that if he ignored the baby I would take care of the situation. And I did. And I am thin again.