My husband, Tony, and I had a plan for my first meal after our baby was born: a raw seafood tower and a strong margarita with a salted rim. These were two things I craved furiously during pregnancy and waited longingly to enjoy.
Instead, the Covid-19 pandemic came sweeping through the world, and everything shut down. We weren’t allowed to leave the hospital room after Simone, our baby girl, was born in April 2020.
I remember negotiating with the nurse – I was ravenous after 15 hours of labour and an emergency C-section. I wanted the grilled chicken sandwich from the hospital dinner menu. She said I could have another apple juice and some Jell-O.
Eighteen months later, we had a baby boy. We named him Julius. There were vaccines by then, and Tony was allowed to leave the hospital room. (Still no visitors.)
He came back with bagel sandwiches and a bag full of snacks and drinks from Wawa. We ate them while we sang Julius silly songs. Julius nursed and we both fell asleep with his little head on my chest, his soft body rising and falling with my breath.
I thought I’d escaped postpartum depression. I had nearly a decade in eating disorder recovery under my belt, a supportive partner, a great therapist, and loving family and friends.
I thought, the second time around, I was prepared for the postpartum rollercoaster of hormones and tears. When I woke up with my sheets soaked with sweat, I wasn’t alarmed.
But things felt different. I longed for the cosy, lazy days of snuggles with infant Simone – but now I had a toddler who wanted “mommy, mommy, mommy” always, who had big feelings and full-bodied meltdowns, and a new baby who kept us perpetually bleary and bone-tired.
Post-surgery, I couldn’t pick up Simone, and she wailed in protest of this injustice. I got Covid during the omicron wave and had to isolate with Julius, who was breastfeeding. It was a dark, cold winter.
I couldn’t catch a break or a breath. I felt I was letting down my precious, tiny humans.
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