The Paper Dart
An ode to creativity and distraction

Postpartum Self-Criticism and The Blame Game

The postpartum period, for me at least, is often fraught with self-criticism. If the baby doesn’t sleep, or the big kids eat mac and cheese three days in a row, or I forget to feed the dog… for a few days… I usually blame myself. And not in the “oops I goofed” kind of way, but more in the “I’m a bad mom” kind of way.

As a former teacher, and regular consumer of parenting content, I know that I would be heartbroken if I heard my children labeling themselves in this way. However, intentionally or not, I not only do it to myself, but sometimes to them as well. While it can be difficult to silence my impulse to explain away some of my kids’ behaviors by telling strangers at the park that “she’s shy,” or “he’s clingy,” I know that if my kids hear these labels, they might also begin to internalize them–much like I have.

One night last week, I was perusing Instagram while nursing my son (as many a new mom is wont to do), when I stumbled across a post by Chazz Lewis (@mrchazz) discussing the difference between shame and guilt. In the post, Lewis talked about how shaming ourselves for our mistakes and shortcomings is counterproductive. For example, when we label ourselves as incapable or hopeless, we are more likely to live up to that standard. On the other hand, he argued that guilt, when experienced in place of shame, is productive, as it allows us to feel uncomfortable in a way that is motivating, instead of limiting. (Brene Brown also talks about this concept in her book Daring Greatly, passages from which are summarized here.)

Over the past three weeks, I have made a conscious effort to notice, and name, when I am unnecessarily “shaming” myself. While this effort hasn’t necessarily stopped me from labeling myself in some pretty counterproductive ways from time to time, it has stopped me from living in these labels. When I’ve had a long, sleepless night and can’t seem to find the energy to smile, I’m not the “sad mom” my inner critic wants me to think I am. When I get short with my son after he rams the swivel chair into a freshly painted wall, I’m not a “mean mom,” or an “angry mom,” I’m just human.

The more I try to be conscious of my tendency to “label” and “shame” myself, the more I’ve noticed myself doing it–in big, and small ways. When I burned the first batch of pancakes at breakfast the other day, I turned to the kids and told them they’d have to wait, because I was “so forgetful.” My daughter laughed and said “yeah, you are,” which, weirdly enough, surprised me. Because you know what? I’m not that forgetful. Do I forget appointments and burn pancakes every once in a while? For sure. But I also retain an incredible amount of other information. For example, I remember what time my newborn son last ate, exactly how many hours of sleep he got last night, and which boob he last nursed from. I remember all 70 items I need to order from the grocery store, as well as the 15 I need to pick up from Target. Every time we wash hands, I remember to ask my son if he wants to turn the faucet on before I do it myself, and exactly how wide to open my daughter’s closet door at night.

When my daughter agreed that I was forgetful, she hadn’t come to that conclusion herself. In fact, if I had asked her cold, she probably would have thought I do a great job remembering things. But I had called myself something, and she, being a literal four-year-old, assumed it to be true.

This differentiation between guilt and shame, and my newfound mission to identify where and when I’m allowing myself to sit in each, has been instrumental in allowing me to learn from, instead of being broken by, the mistakes that I will inevitably continue to make (especially during this exhaustion-fueled phase of early motherhood). My dearest hope is that, as my children grow, they’re able to accept all of the parts of themselves (the good, and the bad), as just that: parts. While I know that the world will try to label them, or tell them they “are” a certain type of way, I hope to give them the skills to know better. And before I can do that for them, I have to make sure I do it for myself as well.

“You’re Brave”: The Unlikely Wisdom of the Intrusive Mommy-Watchers

Moms of the internet seem to really hate when strangers at the grocery store tell them “you’ve got your hands full!” The memes on this topic are endless, and sometimes they even make me laugh.

But to be totally honest, I kind of agree with these intrusive pedestrians. Because, really, they’re exactly correct: I, and all the other moms out there, really do have our hands full (even if it’s maybe not always in the way that they mean).

Yesterday afternoon, I was walking my children along the sandy beachfront path a few blocks from our home (which sounds idyllic, except for the fact that, as I previously stated, I had both of my children with me, and it was afternoon, so one, or both of them, really should have been sleeping), when an older woman walking an alarmingly bedraggled-looking beagle, neither of whom I knew in any capacity, stopped, raised her eyebrows at my 32-week pregnant belly, and said “girl, you’re brave.“

I feel like a lot of internet moms would have had a field day with this comment. It was pretty intrusive. And a little bit rude. But I surprised both her, and myself, when my immediate reaction was to laugh. I even peed my pants a little (although that isn’t too unusual for me at this point). The older woman smiled, gestured to my stroller, and wished me “good luck with all that,” as she continued to drag her dog down the sidewalk.

And I kind of love that woman, because I’m pretty sure she’s me in 30 years.

Having two children under four is a wild ride. I definitely do have my hands, and my pockets, and my patience-pouch full. And in a few, short months, we’re “bravely” throwing another kid on top of it all.

The decision to get pregnant again was not an easy one. In fact, my husband and I talked about it basically every night, for a year. Because, as the aforementioned stranger implied, having a third kid is pretty scary.

Sure, the risks of pregnancy are scary, as is the financial burden of three children, and the fact that I’ll be officially outnumbered whenever the kids and I leave the house without my husband. But for me, what scares me the most is the first, and arguably the cutest, part of parenthood: the newborn phase.

The newborn phase has never been my favorite. In fact, I can honestly say that I hated Cara Dumaplin (Of Taking Cara Babies fame) long before it was “cool” to hate her, largely because she told me that her $120 sleep training course would magically allow me to “love the newborn phase.” Spoiler alert: I paid up, and it didn’t happen.

During my first pregnancy, I worried about whether the baby would be healthy, and how I would survive delivery. The prospect of giving birth was so foreign and overwhelming to me that I couldn’t really look past it and imagine what the days and weeks immediately afterwards would be like. And so, like most new moms, I brought a beautiful, healthy baby home from the hospital, only to be bombarded by the real challenges that, despite taking all the right classes, and reading all the right books, no one really told me about.

During those first few weeks, I was shocked by how insane true sleep deprivation could make me feel. I was shocked by how much time my baby spent sleeping, yet how little I was able to accomplish during the day. I was shocked by how foreign my body felt, how difficult breastfeeding was, how much it hurt to take a gosh darn poop, and how overwhelming and unpredictable my emotions were.

While all of these perfectly normal side-effects of early motherhood were difficult, the sadness that seemed to linger at the edge of every beautiful moment was the most surprising, and frightening to me. While I had experienced periods of real sadness before, they had all been brought on by, or correlated with, difficult, or truly saddening life events. Never before had I had so many reasons to be happy, yet felt so darn bummed out all the time.

When my second child was born, he slept less, and got sick more, and the “baby blues” I experienced with my first were a little closer to navy. While, the second time around, I had a better understanding of the connection between my crashing hormones, and my bummed out brain, it was even harder for me to give myself grace, and space to sit in my emotions–largely because I now had a daughter who was there, and watching me, all the time.

This time around, I’m still worried about the health of my baby. I’m also worried about the delivery, and the epidural, and the Apgar score, and whether or not I’ll be able to pee when they take the dang catheter out. But I’m mostly worried about feeling sad again, and having two tiny pairs of eyes on me as I try my best to find the sunshine in what is normally a very cloudy time for me.

When that lady on the boardwalk told me that I’m “brave”, she probably meant it facetiously. If my kids were old enough to understand her, I might actually have been mad, and would have had to make it clear to my kids that they are not, in fact, the burden she was implying they were. Because my kids are absolutely adorable, and, right after my husband, the absolute greatest blessings in my life.

But despite her implicit sarcasm, that “you’re brave” transported me into the mind of a future version of myself, perched on a well-worn rocker in the middle of the night, wincing in pain as a I try to get a squirming newborn to latch before his whimpers become cries loud enough to wake up the entire house. It made me imagine an afternoon spent playing puzzles with my kids, and being awed by their perfection while simultaneously feeling completely overwhelmed by sadness. I saw myself sitting at a boisterous and joyful dinner table as the sun goes down, unable to focus on my daughter’s lighthearted tales of her day because I’m somehow incapable of tearing my mind away from it’s fixation on the seemingly endlessly dark night ahead.

But as much as I am fearful of this third postpartum period, I am so much more excited about what it represents. Because, despite the undeniable challenges we’ve endured together, my kids have completely transformed my life for the better. And while the beautiful parts of their childhoods are often the ones I most want to celebrate and remember, the hard ones also matter too.

When I think about my kids watching me struggle, and feel sad, and wonder, out loud, if I can do it all, I feel a little bit heartbroken, but also a little bit proud. Because life, in general, is pretty hard. As my kids grow up, they are going to be faced with challenge after challenge that is unlike anything they have faced before. If they do it right, they will have periods in their lives where they suffer, or feel like a failure, or wonder if whatever they worked so hard for was really, actually worth it. And while they likely won’t remember the 6-8 weeks after their littlest brother was born, I hope that some part of my struggle, and my efforts to rise above it, stick with them as a reminder of what real life, and real bravery, really looks like.

I know that at some point in the near future I’ll be zombie-walking through the grocery store with three screaming kids in tow when someone passes me and yells, “you’ve got your hands full!” without making any attempt to actually help. And I won’t resent them for it. Partially because I won’t have the mental space to process any more emotions, but also because they’ll be right. I do, and will, always have my hands full, and I’m so, eternally grateful that I was brave enough to make it that way.

Kid’s Book Companion:

This story was inspired by a truly lovely kid’s book entitled Orion And The Dark by Emma Yarlet. The book follows Orion, who is, at first, terrified of pretty much everything (including, of course, the dark), as he discovers that the things he thinks are scary are really just there to help him grow. This story is so creatively told and beautifully illustrated, and I can not recommend it enough. You can purchase the book via the link below. Happy reading!

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