for the love of words

In front of the bathroom mirror, you stare at yourself, and it’s not so much disgust that you feel as it is disdain. Even though you’d given birth three months ago, you’re not where you thought you’d be by now–like, body-wise–and you’re nowhere close to being how you were before getting pregnant.

You don’t talk about it. Other people wouldn’t want to hear it, or they just wouldn’t understand. Plus, you don’t even feel like you have the right to feel this way at all; you’re able to fit into most of your regular clothes again. 

Dressed, no one can tell. It’s what’s under your shirt that’s the problem. It's best to just accept what you see at face-value, squeeze your way into shape-wear, and then go about your day. You know this. 

But sometimes it’s just not that easy. 

“Checkin’ yourself out?” Sy jokes when he re-enters the room after finally getting your daughter to sleep. You tightly smile at his reflection in the mirror before turning away and stepping into the bedroom.

That isn’t at all what you were doing.

“Is she alright in there?” you ask Sy, trying not to worry that while you’ve been scrutinizing your stretchmarks, Sy’s been taking over putting the baby to sleep. "Went down okay?"

“Yeah," he hums while starting to pull back the covers on the bed. "Got her layin’ on her stomach with some stuffed animals 'round her face…Covered her with that big blanket your momma knitted."

Sharply, you look at him. 

“Jokin’,” he immediately says, and you quickly approach the monitor on your nightstand to see your daughter laying on her back fast asleep, wearing only the warm onesie you’d dressed her in after her bath.

Good. She should be fine for the next few hours. Until your boobs get full and begin to prickle again. 

Breastfeeding your daughter multiple times in the middle of the night…it’s a time you truly cherish, really. You do. It's just…it's different. It's made your body different. 

Many parts of your body are different. Your hips, your breasts, your stomach. For the past few months, you've felt like a ball of dough. 

Watching you stare at the monitor and zone out, Sy asks, “What’s on your mind?”

A lot.

You shrug before climbing into bed. “Wonder how long she’s gonna sleep.”

"She's been doin' four-hour stretches here lately."

"Yeah," you acknowledge. "But everything I've been readin' says there's this thing called sleep regression that I should expect soon."

"That we should expect soon," Sy corrects. 

You glance over at him apologetically. "That's what I meant," you murmur. 

You know this is a partnership. Obviously. You and Sy are soon to be married. You just… He's gotten promoted recently. He's going overseas again any time now. You're honestly surprised you've gotten him all to yourself for as long as you have, actually. That he'd been present for the birth of your first baby. That he’s been just as active a parent as you have. 

But there’s just some things he wouldn’t possibly understand. After staring at the ceiling for a minute, you push all the covers off your body.

“I think I’m gonna take a bath,” you mutter somewhat randomly, getting up and starting for the bathroom again.

Without saying anything, Sy follows you into the room, and he digs around in the cabinet for your bubble bath container. You start the water and just stand there, not wanting to undress until he leaves.

All that does is cause him to raise an eyebrow at you. He steps in closer and puts a hand on the small of your back. "You sure you're feelin' alright, babe?"

You nod and sort of chuckle at yourself. “Just sleep-deprived,” you say. “I'll be okay.”

After Sy nods at you dubiously, he closes the door and leaves you alone. That just means you're in front of the mirror, though. Again.

You need a makeover. You need to start actually going to the gym again. You need to get a long-overdue haircut. You need to get new fucking clothes. You need to just…look different. 

You just–Ugh. You don't feel right in your own skin at all. 

Soon, it doesn’t even matter that you’re taking off your clothes in front of a mirror; your eyes start filling with hot tears, and the film from the liquid distorts all you see.

And that just makes you want to cry even harder because–seriously. You're being so selfish. You just had a baby a few months ago. You brought life into the world. You have a partner who helps out with everything. And he cooks for you and makes sure you're comfortable and…You're blessed. You know you are. But here you are, crying in the bathtub. 

After soaking in the old tub feeling guilty about feeling ugly, you sigh and head back into the bedroom, finding Sy relaxing on the bed with his eyes half-lidded in a light nap. 

You redress in your pajamas underneath the towel that's wrapped around you before dropping it, then fiddle around with stuff in your closet to busy yourself with feeling productive. Trying to, at least. You take the towel back to the bathroom, put some lotion on, some cream on your face… and sigh in front of the mirror again. 

Eventually, you make your way to the bed, but you roll over on your side and don't get close to Sy. He gets close to you, though. Inadvertently, you stiffen.

Sy pauses at your reaction to him. “Okay, what’s goin’ on?” he sits up and asks. 

You frown. “Nothin’.”

“You’re pullin’ away from me,” Sy comments. 

“Nothin’s wrong,” you repeat, almost moodily. “I just– I'm tired and I just don’t wanna be touched right now.”

"Okay..." Sy mutters quietly. “Did I do somethin’?”

You're being unreasonable. Rolling over, you soften your eyes. “Sorry. No. Of course not. I didn’t mean to…Sorry,” you repeat. “I just don’t really feel like myself right now, I guess.”

Sy observes your face. "Maybe you're gettin' that shit that's goin' around," he brings up. 

"Yeah, maybe," you reply, rolling back over and letting Sy match his chest to your back. "Hope she doesn't get it."

Sy grunts. “Doesn't your breastmilk keep her from gettin’ sick or somethin’?” he asks, and you chuckle because that's not necessarily how it works. 

Then you frown again. His comment has just served to remind you that all you are is a milk-factory. Your boobs are already hurting and her last feeding was an hour ago.