On baby blues, midnight meltdowns, and the love I never saw coming
In the very early days after Caleb was born, I struggled more than I ever expected. A very bad case of the baby blues overrode all other feelings — joy, excitement, awe — and replaced them with one overwhelming emotion: fear.
That wasn’t what I’d dreamed of when I pictured my son.
Instead of peace and warmth, I felt panic. I found myself exclaiming daily — sometimes hourly — that I just wasn’t ready. Tears came from nowhere and everywhere. I cried constantly, without warning or explanation. My husband was scared. I was scared. And everyone else had to pick up the pieces after every meltdown.
Blinds were thrown open as soon as the sun rose. Every light in the house flicked on the minute it set. We kept visitors coming and going, because Lord knows it’s easier to hold yourself together when someone else is there. When they weren’t, I’d crumble again.
Those first two weeks were some of the darkest and scariest of my life. Of course there were moments of intense love — disbelief that this perfect baby was mine. There were flickers of hope, glimmers of joy. But mostly, there was a cloud. A thick, gray cloud that hung above everything.
Just like my doctor said, that cloud started to lift around the two-week mark. Slowly, I began to adjust to this new life. My hormones began to settle. I could finally see a little more clearly — and breathe.
I used to say “I’m not ready” mostly in the middle of the night, when Caleb wouldn’t sleep and I could barely keep my eyes open. We’re irrational when we’re exhausted — and I was beyond exhausted. I told Jerry over and over that I couldn’t do it. I missed our old life. The quiet one. The one without crying and rocking and pacing and second-guessing. I cried about that too.
On one of those first nights, when I was crying again for no reason, I remembered a phone number the hospital nurse had circled before we were discharged. “Call this if you have any questions or troubles,” she’d said.
I’m not usually one to reach out. But that night, I did. I called. A nurse answered and talked to me for over an hour. Her voice was soft. Gentle. I’ll never forget it. She felt like an angel, though I never got her name.
She understood. She said I wasn’t alone. She told me this was common — but also encouraged me to call my doctor the next day. And then she said something I’ve never forgotten: when you have a baby, you’re celebrating a new life — but you’re also mourning your old one.
It made everything make sense.
Looking back now, I still don’t fully understand what I went through. All I know is what my doctor told me: baby blues are common. Hormones are wild. Exhaustion is real.
Since then, I’ve said “I wasn’t ready” less and less.
I still don’t believe motherhood is entirely natural. Some parts are instinctual — yes — but nothing about it came easy for me. I had to learn it. But love? That part is instinct. You love this tiny stranger fiercely and fully — even when they cry all night and demand everything from you. Even when they test every limit you didn’t know you had.
I read all the pregnancy and baby books I could stay awake for. But none of them prepared me for this big, overwhelming, all-consuming love. None of them prepared me for how hard it would be — or how good it could be, too.
And just when I thought I had found my footing…
Caleb stopped sleeping again.
He began protesting bedtime like he did as a newborn — after months of sleeping through the night. My baby, who had slept peacefully in his crib since two months old, now screamed the second I set him down. I’d rock him back to sleep, set him down again, and he’d scream all over. This cycle repeated for hours.
Each night, we’d start the same routine around 7:30 — and finally, finally, he’d give in around 12:30.
Was it teething? A sleep regression? We weren’t sure. But he screamed so much his voice went hoarse. And just like that, I was back in the thick of it. Exhausted. Frustrated. Depleted.
I found myself whispering those words again, in the dead of night: “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know."
Sleep deprivation makes you irrational. It makes you say things like, “That’s it! We’re only having one, and I mean it!” (I did.)
But then… he falls asleep. And I fall asleep. And Jerry does too. The house is quiet. And when the sun comes up, the fog lifts again. The light comes through the blinds, and we can see clearly again.
I remember: I have gotten through this. I am getting through this.
Motherhood is the biggest change a person can go through. You can’t prepare for it, no matter how many times someone says, “your life will never be the same.” You think you know what they mean — but you don’t. Not until it happens to you.
And then the morning comes, and he smiles up at you from his crib like the night before never happened. And your heart cracks open for the thousandth time
No, life will never be the same.
But that’s because it’s better.
And when the light comes pouring in through the blinds, you can finally see it clearly.
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