So, worth it?

You know how most mothers gush and swoon when they talk about their children and how they insist that motherhood is so worth it?

Yeah – I don’t fucking get it.

Seriously. I’ve been a mom for twenty-five days, and every single day has been a fucking nightmare. And I’m not even talking about the delivery. That’s the easy part, despite the episiotomy (and the fact that you went through all this trouble and he doesn’t even look like either of you).

Every time Z gets hungry or has peed or pooped, he cries. All of 3 kilos, and he has more lung power than Arnab Goswami on steroids. And he eats/pees/poops in 15 minute cycles.

It’s not surprising then, that the last twenty-five days have seen only four changes of clothes (unless you exclude the hospital gown, which I wore for the two days I was in there – which makes it three changes of clothes over 23 days. So basically I have worn each pair of pajamas-and-tee for about 7.67 days).

The clothes I’m wearing now have safely absorbed six pee puddles and two vomit showers, which is more than I can say for most diapers I’ve tried (if I hear a word about how I should be using cloth nappies, I’m going to scratch your eyes right out). I’m pretty sure these pajamas are going to last me another three days, unless poop gets on it. Maybe not even then.

When your husband asks you if you want to shower, you want to scratch his face with your longish fingernails that have dried poop under them. (Unless your baby just peed, in which case the poop isn’t dry anymore.) If I had fifteen fucking minutes to spare, don’t you think I’d be spending it on something that I actually fucking need to do? Like eat? Or sleep?

The answer is NO. The moment you pick up that cup of tea or lie down on the bed, the Arnabesque wailing will begin. By the time you get back, it’s cold (speaking of both the tea and the bed) and you just can’t, anymore.

Then there’s the breastfeeding, which is (f)actually beast-feeding, but you don’t realize it until those pretty pink lips you were just admiring suck on your tits like a vampire. Yes, there’s blood involved, and no, you never get used to it (at least not for the first 25 days).

All of this leaves you so exhausted and emotionally volatile, you find yourself weeping uncontrollably and thinking dark thoughts, much like the ones in this post. You’re not blind; you know you’re probably depressed, but if the husband even remotely suggests post-partum depression, you get mad and basically prove him right by flailing your arms and screaming at him until he hugs you. Then you’re still mad, but at least you’ve got some physical contact with a human being other than your son.

Speaking of human beings – most days, you don’t feel like you’re one.

Motherhood is so worth it my ass.

You know what I think? I think experienced mothers just really want other women to suffer – just like when you watch a really disastrous movie and you come back and tell all your friends they should go watch it coz it’s so “worth it”. Why drown alone when you can take down the rest of the world with you?

Advice to women without children: stay that way unless you have a lot of patience. At twenty-five days the tunnel seems too long and the light at the end, if there’s one, is too far away.