I used to think the hardest part of having a baby would be the sleepless nights.
I was wrong.
The hardest part was realizing how lonely I could feel in a house where I was supposed to have a husband.
Sadie had only been home for a short time when my days began running together.
Morning looked like afternoon.
Afternoon became evening before I had finished the things I meant to do before lunch.
And night was just another stretch of hours when I tried to keep a tiny person comfortable while my own body begged me to lie down.
Sadie was a good baby, as far as newborns went.
She cried when she was hungry, cried when she was uncomfortable, and sometimes cried simply because nothing I tried seemed to be what she wanted.
I learned the sound of her different cries.
I learned how to hold her against my shoulder while reaching for a bottle with my free hand.
I learned that a clean shirt could become dirty before I had finished putting it on.
What I never learned was how to make the day long enough.
Wade had returned to work after Sadie was born.
He had his schedule, his commute, his lunch break, and the people he spoke to during the day.
I had a baby who needed me every couple of hours and a house that seemed to produce dirty dishes and laundry whenever I looked away.
At first, I told myself this was temporary.
We were new parents.
We were adjusting.
I kept repeating those words whenever I felt resentful.
Adjusting.
Temporary.
Normal.
They sounded reasonable enough to keep me from admitting how badly I was struggling.
Some afternoons, I realized I hadn't eaten anything substantial since the night before.
I'd find a piece of toast on the counter, take two bites, and hear Sadie stirring in her bassinet.
By the time I settled her again, the toast was cold and I had forgotten why I'd put it there.
Showering became a task that required preparation.
I'd make sure Sadie was fed, change her diaper, lay out everything she might need, and hurry into the bathroom.
Sometimes I was back out before the water had warmed properly.
Other times, I'd barely shampooed my hair when her cries started.
I began measuring success in strange little ways.
A load of laundry folded.
A bottle washed.
Ten uninterrupted minutes sitting on the edge of the bed.
I didn't need anyone to tell me I was tired.
My body told me every time I stood up.
My back ached from bending over the crib.
My eyes burned from broken sleep.
I would catch myself staring at the kitchen sink, unable to remember whether I'd already washed the bottle sitting beside it.
Wade didn't seem to notice much of this.
When he came home, he asked whether dinner was ready or whether I'd remembered to pick up something we needed.
Sometimes he asked how Sadie had slept.
He rarely asked how I had slept.
I don't say that because I expected him to read my mind.
I say it because I had started to believe my exhaustion was invisible unless I could make it inconvenient for somebody else.
I tried to hide it.
When he asked how my day had gone, I said it had been busy.
When he complained that the house was messy, I promised to catch up.
When he wanted to know why I looked so worn out, I blamed the baby.
I didn't want to be the wife who complained.
I didn't want him thinking I couldn't handle being a mother.
Looking back, I can see how much energy I spent pretending I was fine.
I was using up the little strength I had left to protect everyone else from the truth.
Then my mother called.
It was an ordinary afternoon.
Sadie had finally settled, and I was standing beside the kitchen counter with one hand resting on a bottle I'd forgotten to rinse.
The phone rang.
I saw Lorraine's name on the screen and answered.
She asked how I was doing.
I opened my mouth to give her the answer I'd been giving everybody.
Fine.
That was all I managed.
My voice broke before I could say anything else.
I pressed my free hand against my face, embarrassed by how quickly the tears came.
I tried to apologize.
That made it worse.
My mother didn't rush to fill the silence.
She waited until I could breathe properly.
Then she asked me what was happening.
I told her I was tired.
I told her I couldn't seem to get ahead of anything.
I told her that sometimes I spent the whole day looking after Sadie and still felt as though I had accomplished nothing.
I admitted that I missed sleeping.
I admitted that I missed being able to take a shower without listening for a cry.
Most of all, I admitted that I didn't know how much longer I could keep pretending I was managing.
My mother listened.
She didn't tell me that every new mother went through the same thing.
She didn't remind me that I'd wanted a child.
She didn't offer advice about organizing my day.
She said she was coming over.
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
"Mom, you don't have to do that."
"I've already decided."
I glanced toward the stairs.
Sadie was quiet, but I could hear her making those small, sleepy noises she often made before waking up.
"Your knees have been bothering you," I said.
"They've been bothering me for years."
"I mean it. I don't want you hurting yourself because I'm having a hard time."
"Jenna, you are having a baby. You're not asking me to carry furniture up three flights of stairs."
I almost laughed.
It was the first time that day I'd felt anything close to laughter.
My mother had always been like that.
She could make a difficult thing sound manageable without pretending it wasn't difficult.
She was seventy-three years old.
Walking upstairs could leave her moving slowly for the rest of the day.
She had trouble with her knees, and I knew that standing for too long made them worse.
The thought of her coming to my house to help me care for a newborn made me feel guilty.
The thought of telling her no made me feel even worse.
"Just let me come," she said.
I stopped arguing.
After we hung up, I stood in the kitchen for a while with the phone still in my hand.
I could hear the refrigerator humming.
The bottle remained on the counter.
For once, I didn't immediately return to the task I'd been avoiding.
I let myself sit down.
A few minutes later, Sadie began crying.
I went to her, lifted her into my arms, and felt the familiar heaviness settle over me.
But something had changed.
Someone knew.
I wasn't the only person who understood that I needed help.
That evening, I spoke to Wade about my mother's visit.
He was sitting on the couch with his phone in one hand.
I stood near the doorway, trying to make the arrangement sound casual.
"Mom offered to stay with us for a little while."
He continued looking at the screen.
"How long is a little while?"
"Maybe a few weeks. A month at the most."
He shrugged.
"That's fine. I'm gone most of the day anyway."
I waited for him to look up.
He didn't.
I wanted to ask whether he understood what her coming would mean to me.
I wanted him to say that he was glad I wouldn't be alone with everything.
Instead, he returned to whatever he had been reading.
I told myself not to make an issue of it.
He'd agreed.
That was what mattered.
I didn't know then how much that conversation would matter later.
Or how little his easy agreement had to do with gratitude.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: My Mother Arrived With One Suitcase, and Within Days I Began to Recognize How Close I Had Come to Breaking
I Thought I Could Handle Motherhood Alone Until One Phone Call Brought My Seventy-Three-Year-Old Mother to Our Door
Part 1 of 9
