Frumpled

The last time I was recovering from giving birth, I had to explain the word frumpy to my German midwife.

Usage: “I feel so frumpy.”

As in, I am the polar opposite of glamourous. As in, here is this absolutely gorgeous little creature dressed in the cutest new clothes and here is the “radiant” new mother who is leaking milk and blood, whose clothes are either stretched out of shape, don’t fit or are completely inappropriate for the nursing, holding, burping changing demands of new motherhood. And then, there is the fact that I couldn’t remember when I’d last had an uninterrupted shower with a good hair washing.

This time, it’s worse. I can’t even be bothered to change my shirt every time I am am spat up upon because there is enough laundry to do as it is without adding three or four more shirts over the course of the day. In fact, it’s 11:30 and I must admit that I am still in my pyjamas and I smell like sour milk and sweat.

The baby, at four weeks 4, 5 days of age is in the middle of her 5th week growth spurt and I can’t put her down for a moment without being treated to crying and shrieking during which she manages to scratch her face and make me feel terrible for not being a better manicurist.

And, here is the confessional part, I feel used. I feel like I brought this child into the world and my task, if not my usefulness, was finished. I feel crumpled up, but not thrown away because I still have to function as a caregiver.

I call this new state frumpled, a combination of frumpy, used and crumpled up in the corner of my own psyche.

I know I would feel better if we lived closer to family, if I could force myself to go out and interact with others every day in my mother tongue, and if my husband actually came home from work at 6 o’clock and ate the dinner I’ve cooked while it’s still hot. And, I know that list is just making me feel worse because it’s composed of things I really can’t do anything about at the moment.

Rationally, I know that if I eat properly, get some fresh air and rub my cheek against the baby’s soft head, I will feel better. And yet, something is stopping me from giving into the rational. I want to be purely emotional and feel sorry for myself, for the state of my body and the state of my selfhood.

But, that’s not doing anyone any good, is it?