Prayer for a New Baby Hers

God, it's 3 AM again. The baby is finally asleep on my chest and I should sleep too but I can't stop staring at this face. And I can't stop crying.

And I don't know if these are happy tears or tired tears or scared tears. I think they're all of them. My body doesn't feel like mine anymore.

I'm swollen and leaking and aching in places I didn't know could ache. Everyone told me about the birth. Nobody told me about the after.

The bleeding that goes on for weeks. The way breastfeeding feels like a battle. The hormones that turn a beautiful moment into a panic attack.

I love this baby so much it scares me. The love is violent. Overwhelming.

It showed up fully formed the second they put this child on my chest and it has not let me rest since. I check breathing twelve times a night. I google every sound.

I hold this baby and think I will destroy anything that tries to hurt you. And then I think what if the thing that hurts you is me not being enough. Nobody asks how I'm doing.

They ask how the baby is doing. And the baby is fine. The baby is perfect.

But I am unraveling. Quietly. In the bathroom.

Between feedings. I smile for the visitors and I fall apart when they leave. What if something is wrong with me.

Not postpartum like the pamphlets say. What if I'm just not built for this. What if every other mother figures it out and I don't.

Psalm 139 says you formed this baby in my womb. You knew this child before I did. Lord, you formed me too.

You made me this baby's mother on purpose. Help me believe that. "I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

Fearfully. That word feels right. Because this is full of fear.

And it is also full of wonder. Both at once. I made a human being.

My body did something miraculous and is now paying the price for it and everyone acts like I should be glowing. I'm not glowing, Lord. I'm surviving.

And surviving is enough right now. Help me stop comparing myself to the mothers I see online. The ones who seem to have it figured out.

The ones with clean houses and flat stomachs and babies who sleep. That is not my story. My story is messier.

And maybe messier is okay. Lord, hold the guilt. The guilt for not enjoying every second.

The guilt for wanting five minutes alone. The guilt for crying when I should be grateful. Take it.

I can't carry the baby and the guilt at the same time. Help my partner see what I need without me having to find the words. Because I don't have words right now.

I have instincts and exhaustion and love so fierce it burns. Let that be enough for today. This baby is a miracle.

I know that. And I am allowed to be a miracle who is struggling. Both things can be true.

Amen.