They told me it would be like this

Something warm was dripping down Angie’s right arm. It slithered slowly and methodically down to her elbow where it dripped onto her khaki pants. She closed her eyes, too worn out to investigate. For the past 6 weeks, there had not been a day where some liquid did not expel from an orifice. In these blurry weeks, she had become well acquainted with various bodily fluids, some she never knew of before.

Before. It seemed so long ago. There was BC (before child) and AC (after child). BC was sleeping in on the weekends, dinners out, night clubs, plays, concerts, good sex. AC was sleepless nights, diapers, breast pumping, and bewitching hours where the baby cried for no obvious good reason. She probably realized she didn’t exactly win the Mommy lottery.

Angie had planned for this baby. At 34 years old, she had a respectable amount of maturity. She read all the books, took all the classes and faithfully swallowed every prenatal vitamin. But all those books amounted to horse manure when it came to preparing a new mom for the realities of newborn rearing. When she was pregnant, Angie had envisioned herself cuddling a peacefully sleeping baby; one with dark long eyelashes and full rosebud lips. Angie would be wearing a white cotton nightie, free of baby mucus, one strap slightly off her shoulder, her long chestnut hair slightly rumpled and cascading onto her clean smooth pillow. Basically Victoria’s Secret meets Earth Mother. She would be a natural. She and the baby would gaze adoringly at each other while she nursed perfectly.

In reality, Angie's hair was falling out in clumps, her eyes were puffy and lined from lack of sleep and stress. She lived in a stained gray sweatshirt and elastic pants, her belly still protruding over the waistband. The baby had two modes: screaming at the top of her lungs or projectile spit up.

Angie ruefully smiled as she remembered how her mom and older sister, as well as quite a few co-workers offered to organize postpartum meals for her. Angie had scoffed at this idea. There would be plenty of time to make wholesome meals while the baby slept contently in her lavender Moses basket. In fact, Angie informed them, she would love to meet them out for lunch or coffee. The baby would be quite happy being held at the table while they all caught up on each others’ lives.

The women’s sidelong glances and snorts of sarcasm should have been a clue. A few of them tried to set her straight before her due date, but she refused to take their advice seriously. “They told me it would be like this. Exhausting, overwhelming and frankly disgusting,” Angie muttered to herself as she wiped up baby spit up from her pants and arm. Thank God they did, because if they hadn’t, she would have felt like an utter failure, like the only woman in the world to have breakdowns over nursing and colic; the one freak woman who didn’t instantly love motherhood and bond effortlessly with her infant. Without these wise women kindly knocking her down a few notches, Angie would have kicked herself relentlessly for not living up to the unattainable.