This is harder than you expected, isn’t it?
Come now, sit right here. There’s a space beside me on the couch. I can see that you are tired and not yourself. And now you are crying.
But it’s okay. Because even though having a baby has changed your life and everything is chaos, you are still made for this. You are brave and strong. This is a refining fire that will make you even more beautiful. I know this is true.
So sit awhile. Rest. You are going to make it through. You are not alone. See? I wrote this poem just for you.
The thing about having a baby,
or tumbling through a dark hole night after night
not knowing which way is up or down,
feeling like you’ve lost your way
and definitely your mind,
with bile and breast milk stains on your shirt,
is that someday your baby will be fourteen.
She’ll help you paint your walls,
and dip the roller in the tray
without making a mess.
She’ll play her music and you’ll sing along to every song,
except the French ones,
and when you ask about the lyrics
she’ll translate for you.
“It’s about guitars and being free,” she’ll say,
pausing with the roller above her head,
“but it’s not as romantic in English as it is in French.”
And you’ll finish the room together wondering
what you’ll listen to after she leaves in a few short years.
Wondering how a nightmare turned into this.
And you’ll want to tell every women
with cracked nipples and crazed eyes:
It won’t always be this deep
Wait for what’s ahead.
Wait for white walls and music.