I’ve kept pretty mum lately about personal things since Poppy’s birth [a period that is in fact still HERE and NOW]. I’ve shared a lot of photos, snippets of new motherhood, and the happy tale of the birth. As things appear around here, motherhood rocks. It seems full of adorable moments, quiet reflections, fun baby giggles, and refreshing walks in the park. And trust me, sometimes it is. Every day is a real, tangible blessing that I wouldn’t trade. So don’t hate. I know what miracle I’m living.

I have, however, been ruminating over the idea of sharing another side of the last three and a half months. I kind of feel like I give the wrong impression of what this whole thing is like sometimes. It’s one thing to say things are “crazy” or “out of hand” on any given day, but it is an entirely different thing to open up and say that sometimes, no matter how blessed or miraculous, motherhood is cataclysmic.

[cataclysmic ˌ\ka-tə-ˈkliz-məl\adj. a momentous and violent event marked by overwhelming upheaval and demolition]

When Jacob and I got pregnant the first time, a baby now lost, it was an accident. An overzealous anniversary celebration, if you will. We were surprised, speechless, and a little bit whatthefuck? We had been married just one year. I had a great job, he had the luxury of a freelance career, we had two kitty cats and no money. We were living the life! Our marriage was really strong. Prior to getting hitched, we always fought. Somehow when we got married everyone relaxed and we really liked being room/soul mates.

For the sake of brevity, I’ll skip ahead and say that two months after getting pregnant, our baby died. We were really, really crushed. The day of my D&C, we looked at each other and said that we still wanted a family. We were not really ready, but we WANTED it and it felt right. I still think that’s the best decision we ever made. I’m not kidding, there was no preparation, no real reason – just little Poppy-to-be knocking at the door.

Fast forward a year later and I give birth to Poppy Anne. The first four weeks of her life are a whirlwind. I can’t even remember them – seriously. I have only the photos to prove they even happened. Oh, and a bloody bra from the first days of nursing to remind me NEVER TO HAVE A BABY AGAIN. Kidding.

I can’t even begin to tell you the changes in my life, my marriage, my body since Poppy has come.

My body. My poor, poor body. My stomach is covered in stretch marks from navel to Neverland. My boobs pretty much decided to warp into giantly uneven, awkward torpedos of death. And let’s not even talk about the baldness or the fact that, because of permanent hip-widening, I will never again wear single digit jean sizes. Does that grieve anyone else?

The changes in my marriage? My life? Jacob and I were shoved into new roles immediately after Poppy was born. Mother and Father. Say what? I stayed home from work, he got a full-time job. I suddenly found myself folding laundry, making food, cleaning. Readers, I DO NOT CLEAN. I DO NOT COOK. I am notorious for being a bad housewife. Jacob married me because I tell good jokes, not because I know what pasta primavera is [I don't]. Since Poppy, I have felt very trapped by these four walls. Some days I wake up deeply depressed. I have cried several times late at night and rolled over to tell Jacob “This is not what I want – it’s boring. It’s hard.”

Jacob, in the same way, has struggled to try to fit into a new thing called fatherhood. I can’t speak for him, but I can say that similar feelings of futility and what-the-hell-are-we-done-with-another-stupid-pointless-day-already? creep up frequently. You might know the same sense, definitely not linked only to new fatherhood, that is the rat race, the rhythm of Western life. It can suck the spark right out of you.

Jacob and I have had huge, major fights in the last three months. Fights that end with “I’m not happy. I want something else. Are we even on the same page?” These are scary questions to ask your spouse. S-C-A-R-Y. Without further disclosure of our personal crap, I will just say that our marriage took a hit. Divorce is not an option. Neither is living forever unhappy. What we have concluded is that we need LIFE in our lives. We’ve got to do things we like doing, even if they don’t fit into “motherhood” and “fatherhood.” For example, I like music. So instead of folding the laundry this morning, I cranked up The Doors and rocked out with Poppy in front of the sub woofer. The laundry still sits in the dryer I think. [I'm kinda afraid to go in the laundry room ever again].

My point, since this is getting too long, is that having a new family member who requires every ounce of who you are to survive and thrive, is hard work. Motherhood is nothing like I imagined. No one could have even prepared me for it if they tried. Not the sleepless nights and constant feedings and all that shit. That’s easy and like, whatever. The hard part of all this is figuring out who I am. This little girl defines me. I am her MOM now. Our family has THREE – father, mother, daughter. But, our family also is unique and we are unique as individuals [alright, BORG reference over]. We dance to our own beat. We suck at some things [like working and cleaning and living beautifully], but we excel at others [like quoting movies, playing outside and talking shit about the government].

My entrance into motherhood, and Jacob’s into fatherhood, has been nothing short of cataclysmic. It has been a momentous and violent event marked by overwhelming upheaval and demolition. Just about everything has fallen apart since Poppy has been born.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.