A few hours after getting home from the hospital, I went on a walk.
It was around 5 o’clock, and the start of the sunset was streaking across the sky. It felt insane to be up and out in the world three days after giving birth, but I was desperate for fresh air after 72 hours of hospital smells. I wobbled around the block with Adam, our dog, and baby Leo tucked into his bassinet stroller.
Walking around with my baby outside my body seemed unnatural and dangerous; I was hyper aware of every passing car and bump in the sidewalk. We barely made it around the block once before my legs began to throb. Back in bed, I realized with horror that my feet had ballooned, swollen, to twice their size. The message was clear: too much, too soon. It was safer for the baby and me to stay inside.
Over those next few bleary eyed weeks, I stayed close to home. Some days I walked to the edge of the driveway, soaking in the sunlight for a few seconds; other days I made it around the block once, twice, three times. Each time I returned I immediately got back in bed, exhausted, wondering when leaving the house wouldn’t feel like such a gargantuan task. When we took Leo to his first pediatrician appointment, Adam handled the car seat setup and I sat in the back with the baby, feeling like as much of a child as him. The thought of eventually leaving the house alone with him felt downright impossible.
But while the outside world felt daunting, life at home also felt like it had been turned upside down. There is a steep learning curve with a baby – breastfeeding, latching, pumping, cleaning pump parts, sterilizing bottles, etc. – and I often found myself feeling stupid. There were days when going outside felt scary but staying inside felt overwhelming, days I didn’t know where to go other than under the covers.
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