here’s my confession: I have shhh-ed in anger. It’s the quietest scream you’ll ever hear. Clutching this wailing newborn to my chest, I exhale in forceful gusts. I feel the slow release of rage, and I feel guilty. This planned pregnancy and nine precious months so why am I angry? And why is this loud anger, shhh-ed through gritted teeth, soothing her? She closes her eyes and falls asleep and gives my battered body a moment’s rest—sucked and pricked and kneaded from dawn to dawn. I place her gently in her bassinet and turn on white noise so the room drowns in static.

I love my daughter. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, a joy to watch and hold. I can’t imagine the world without her. We always said we wanted one child—one perfect baby, and we got our wish. We’re so lucky, so blessed, and so I feel awful saying this, but

*

the first weeks aren’t “a bubble.” That’s a peaceful image—a soft iridescent light, a fragile orb that floats magical fairies into technicolor dreams. For me, it’s been more like a wave that knocks you down and slams you into the shale, your face rolling in grit, spitting salty air and just as you’re about to find your footing, another wave knocks you down, chest hits sandy rock as you gasp for help, legs flailing toward the blinding sun.

This baby is amazing! I’ll give her everything, love her unconditionally. I can’t wait to take her on adventures. But that will have to wait because

*

this is how postpartum feels:

It’s a field of wildflowers weighed down by rubber mats.

It’s watching holiday musicals with the black & white TV on mute.

It’s walking along a narrow dock and feeling the lake pull you in.

*

the stale couch cradles me, tired and oily, as she roots at my breast. A pillow curls around my waist like exposed intestine and the dog chews his squeaky toy at my feet. I’m watching home renovation shows, new families with healthy budgets and dreamy lists. I look toward my refrigerator – a frozen burrito twelve impossible feet away. Mid-day commercials were made just for me, cherub babies cooing at perfect mothers. Love at first sight.

But how do you love someone you just met?  I examine the blue veins under her translucent skin and panic at the thought of a scrape. It’s a feral love, a protective ferocity. It’s a sour kind of love. Love like a stinging wound, a lemon- juice-paper-cut kind of love, and when she cries my nipples ignite.

 

It’s wonderful to have this time off, to get to know her quirks and expressions. She has the cutest crooked smile and she loves music. But—and please don’t misunderstand—this is not relaxing. Instead,

*

my vision’s full of warning labels, danger up ahead:

 

Avoid serious injury from slipping/sliding/falling.

Make sure to childproof just before they’re crawling.

Always use restraint. Watch for irregular breath.

Jumping may result in paralysis or death.

 

Avoid strangulation. Avoid electrocution. Avoid combustion, spontaneous or self.

Don’t let baby sleep with blankets.

Don’t expose to heat or cold.

Don’t let baby breathe in fumes, toxins, any kind of mold.

 

Don’t fall asleep holding baby—on couch or chair or bed.

And don’t you dare—whatever you do—drop her on her head.

 

Don’t let baby sleep on stomach. Don’t let her sleep on side.

Do you understand how often? how many tots have died?

 

Don’t run off the road while driving. Don’t leave car seat behind.

What you need most right now is calming peace of mind.

 

Enjoy every second and remember to have fun!

You probably don’t realize it, but you’ll miss it when it’s gone!

*

sometimes I just want to sleep alone, stretched out with a heating pad on my back and a cool rag on my forehead. I want to jump on an airplane to anywhere but my breasts, milk-full and pendulous, point to the ground. I recoil at the smell of putrid milk in her neck rolls, the smell of rancid butterscotch diapers as I sit on the couch binge-watching makeover shows—rundown houses and women ambushed from the street, stripped of tacky wallpaper and polyester print.  I watch her root until my sore nipple is in her mouth and the word dugs thuds in my brain, a word that makes me think of mangy dogs in abandoned streets. She unlatches and regurgitates milk like cottage cheese.

 

I’m so privileged to be able to snuggle all day and play peekaboo. It’s an honor to rock her to sleep each night and watch her sweet face as she dreams. But—and I promise I’m not a bad mother—

*

every time she closes her eyes I’m scared she won’t wake up, that she’ll seize and sleep or fever and eyeroll and drift away without warning. So I buy a medical grade thermometer like a ray gun from a mid-century sci-fi. I point it at her head and pull the trigger. 97.8. Normal. But why is she so clammy? I picture the underbelly of a toad. Why is her skin damp when it’s dry and cold in here? I point the sensor at her head one more time, pull the trigger. 98.1. Why is it going up? Or was the first reading off? And for the love of god, Dog, please get out from under my feet. Please.

The doctor said a temperature was a trip to the emergency room. I point and click again, but she wriggles this time. 96. 8. Point, click. 97. 9. This is normal, right?

 

We’ve had such great luck with doctors. An easy pregnancy and textbook birth. It’s wonderful to be home and to be able to sleep when she sleeps and kiss each little toe and each little finger. But—and please don’t repeat this—

*

I have punched my dog’s anvil head. Hour after hour, he pushes at the back of my calves, weaves between my legs, crashes into me over and over like waves in the ocean, one after another, never letting up long enough for me to regain balance and all I can visualize is toppling with the baby in my arms, knees gone sideways, dropping her on the floor, her crusted head breaking open like a sea urchin, gritty gelatin and a salty ooze and the dog rushing to lap it up as white noise crashes along the beach. I lash out with jellied legs and forge ahead as his paws hammer my heels and the baby wriggles and, in the stress of the situation, my foot kicks back into his cast iron chest and the waves calm for a moment.

I love my giant lapdog, my cuddle bear. He loves this baby. He watches over her, gets upset when she cries. It’s adorable. But—and please don’t tell anyone—

*

I feel like ghost peppers behind a mint-fresh smile.

Like a rabid beast hiding behind honeysuckle.

Like the running of the bulls in a porcelain doll.

*

hot water crashes on my shoulders, and I roll my neck. I lean back to wash my hair, and suddenly I hear the baby cry, urgent and distinct. I jump out of the shower, no time for a towel, and pad to the living room where she’s sleeping soundly in her swing. Strange. Must’ve been the squeal of the pipes or a car’s brakes. Maybe the dog whimpering in his sleep. I follow the wet trail back to the shower, and wash my tired hair, dark strands coming out in clumps. Another phantom cry, and I turn the water off—the whine of the pipes? or the echo of a miscarriage, a memory rushing down my body, a weekend getaway but then horrible cramping and a rush to the bathroom where I would stay, folded in half, flushing my bloody insides down a hotel toilet.

The smell of vinegar deep in my brain and my poached belly clean, I stare at the shower mold and wonder if vinegar and baking soda might work on this grout as the itsy-bitsy spider goes down the waterspout.

 

This new baby equipment is amazing. The automatic swing gives me time for a relaxing shower. I desperately need one but—and I swear I’m not crazy—

*

I smell something burning. I catch the smell as the baby and I examine each other in the mirror—my eyes purple from lack of sleep, her eyes purple from being born. We stand in the master bedroom, above the garage where an old swivel chair pulls up to a welding table and a new 240-volt outlet warms a compressor.

I change her diaper and carry her to the kitchen, and I smell it again, an electrical burning, so I call her dad. He sounds alarmed and rushes home, runs downstairs, but everything is fine, he says, no burning.

I sit down to nurse her on the couch and the burning smell lingers. It’s only when I kiss her head that I realize it’s coming from her. The oily scales on her head smell like singed wires and my mind forces an image on me—her tiny body strapped to a metal table, a man in welding glasses pressing electricity to her temples as her brain turns to heat lightning. I hold her tighter and rock back and forth. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But that’s ridiculous. I know that.

 

I have the best partner in the world. He’s helpful, loving, responsive, and wonderful with the baby. He’s the best and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. But, when he leaves for work,

*

advice like seesaws motion-sicks my mind:

 

Baby needs new experiences and baby needs routine.

Mother’s milk is best for baby; baby needs to wean.

 

Take time for yourself; she’ll need you every second.

Take care of you; but come when you are beckoned.

 

Loneliness consumes you; you’ll never be alone.

You could’ve planned for this, of course, if only you had known.

 

Get back to work—don’t lose yourself! But never put work first.

A sacrifice is called for, a lifelong mother’s curse.

 

Baby needs to feel safe, so always hold her tight

Abandon her at bedtime—all alone at night.

 

A daily balance struggle, a shifting tug of war.

Play both sides, run in circles, be a revolving door.

 

Navigate these opposites for the safety of your daughter

And avoid falling face first in the sterile muddy water.

*

I’m holding the baby with one arm and writing thank you notes with the other and I feel my pen pulling toward her eye as a thought needles in, unwelcome, intrusive, a pin slow-piercing her iris, an image of salmon roe on a toothpick, a jellied tapioca ball pierced and ready to eat. I throw the pen down and back away from the table. The cactus pricks of her fingernails bring me back and I sit her down, horrified.

 

The welcome gifts and refrigerator meals are wonderful. I’m so lucky to have supportive friends. I couldn’t ask for more. But I can’t shake this odd feeling:

*

It’s like playing tag under the power lines.

It’s the hum of fluorescent lights.

It’s the strike of a tuning fork.

*

my skin buzzes with hives and erupts with open sores like red lava craters. I throw my milk-stained pajamas toward the overflowing hamper and stand in front of the mirror to examine the dark line down my belly.

I add oil to a steaming bath and ease in, the hot water turning my skin pink. I cock my ear toward the living room while the bathtub holds its breath. Fully submerged, I massage lumpy milk ducts then float back up to sprinkle Epsom salt on my inflamed nipples. They remind me of snow-capped volcanoes and when the salt dries, I sink underwater once again. Milk trails out of my submerged breasts like a volcanic warning, smoke slowly bellowing and rising in the warm water.

 

Motherhood is so rewarding. I’m learning more about her every day and she’s starting to form sounds and recognize shapes and forms. But, when daddy gets home, I have time to dwell on this discomfort—

*

It’s like five minutes after a fireworks finale, the sky thick with pungent smoke.

Like flat grey paint over a rainbow mural.

Like a lead dentist’s vest heavy across your chest.

*

pain sears every time she latches on. Her head pulses in the crook of my arm and I imagine she’s trying to suck poison from a cobra strike. The thought pulls needles of pain from deep within my breast and I have the sudden urge to fling her off of me. The thought forces itself in, and I imagine her skittering like a stink bug across the floor and slamming into the dresser. The scene gets stuck in a loop inside my head, and I’m scared to move, scared that one movement will cause my body to do this thing. I look at her dry scalp, crusted with cradle cap like a dry, cracked desert and I change the storyline. I imagine myself in a biplane flying toward a mirage, somewhere in the distance.

 

I love the idea of breastfeeding. The prenatal classes were so supportive and encouraging. “Breastfeeding doesn’t hurt,” they said. I’ve read the books and understand exactly what to do, but,

*

there’s a cold metallic electricity under my skin. I need to get out of the house. I strap her in the stroller and reach the end of the driveway and then I hear it—the siren from a fire truck somewhere nearby and I feel ice water flush my veins. Back inside, I place her on the floor, beneath a jungle gym canopy, while I sit on the couch and breathe.

She kicks the hanging parrot, and it lights up red. I panic as I see the fiery glow in her eyes and wonder how this moment might be wiring her brain and whether she might grow up to associate this flashing red with tropical birds or emergency sirens or the moment when you’re braking for a red light and you realize you’re about to get rear-ended and the cold electricity returns so I move her to the rainforest and hope this will soothe her brain at some important traffic stop down the line.

 

Fresh air sounds great. She’ll love watching birds as they fly overhead. It’s time to get out and walk, but

*

the blaring noise of honking and neon signs slices through my brain and I miss a step off the curb and feel that electric terror blooming inside.  At our brunch table, I sit motionless as cut flowers. Where is the exit? Where is the bathroom? I scan the restaurant for egress points, which calms my mind. We order bacon and fruit and pancakes and the check and a to-go box.  The food is good, the weather’s nice, and the sun butters her dimpled arms as she sleeps in her carrier and I’m reminded of childhood fishing trips, smushing a piece of white bread around a barbed hook which, as I swallow a bite, pulls like a plow through my intestines. The clock points to the door and my eggs looked up at me, terrified. I order a bloody mary to calm my nerves but I can’t stop looking at the exit, the car, the bathroom door.  What if she wakes up? What if she starts to cry? Where is the exit? Where is the bathroom?

 

We’re going out to brunch, a breezy patio and an early spring day. Our first time out to eat as a family. But when we get there,

*

It feels like tiny slugs cold-slogging along my nerves.

Like that pause at the top of a roller coaster as you wait for the drop.

Like my tongue on a 9-volt battery.

*

nursing isn’t easy, so I’m behind the wheel for the first time headed to a lactation specialist. The baby is a few weeks old, a doll in an infant insert in a car seat in a car. If she broke, there wouldn’t be another one nesting beneath, another baby, just smaller, ready to be nurtured back to weight. My hands at 10 and 2 white-knuckled, rebar-straight, I feel the familiar tingling, the fear seeping in like ice water under my skin. The start of the engine doesn’t wake the baby, but every nerve in my body turns on, alert, aware of her soft body and the short distance I must navigate alone.

I feel the tight strings between my shoulders, stomach full of chewed fingernails as I back slowly out of the driveway. Make it to the end of the road, you can always turn back. Breathe deeply at the end of the street, check the mirror, 10 and 2, right blinker. Make it to the onramp, you can always turn back. Breathe deeply, hit the gas, check the mirrors, check the mirrors, straight back, merge onto the freeway. Five miles, you can always turn back. Slow lane, fifty-five, feeling the intense magnetic pull of the guardrail.

 

I love this tiny being, and it is such an honor to nurse her and know that I’m providing what’s best for her tiny body. I know that it’s natural, but

*

It feels like trapezius muscles turned sailor knots, and a squeezed fist of intestines.

Like that paralyzing moment as you inch toward the edge of a cliff.

Like every taut muscle in your body hammered like a dulcimer.

*

my spine is a rusty bicycle chain. I haven’t left this couch for days. I sit, cornered in a sectional, holding a nursing baby and watching kid-friendly programming because if she hears adult language, adult violence, adult sex, it will lodge in her developing brain and one day those neurons will realign and fire together in the same pattern and she will pull those sounds from deep within and blame me for failing at the beginning and she will be right.

She falls asleep on my chest, pillows wedged under my elbows for safety, and I close my eyes.

I wake with a start, sure that she has stopped breathing even as I feel the swell of her tiny chest and I wonder when I will be able to sleep without this fear and my thoughts whirl like a fast-forward teacup spinning off its track, sucked into a tornado and there goes my mind.

I breathe deeply, in rhythm with her slumbering body. My mind searches for a comfortable position to lie in. Desperate to find solid ground, I repeat the following: I am safe at home. I can feel my body firmly on the couch. I can feel her body firmly resting on mine. I feel our bodies breathing together, and the wheels on the bus go round and round, all, damn, day.

*

Please answer the phone. It’s taken me weeks to build this courage. It’s taken days to find the right time, to rehearse over and over what I need to say. It’s just a phone call. It’s just an appointment. Please answer your phone.

It’s just an appointment, a shower and fresh clothes. But when and how? And what if the baby cries and how do I leave this house without collapsing and what if I can’t make it to the end of the street? Will I be able to make it to your office, and even then, will I be able to speak even if I write down everything I need to say?

Please answer your phone because if I have to leave a message and you call me back the next day I will stare at the vibrating phone, frozen to the floor, hummingbird nerves, thinking answer it, answer it, answer it until the phone goes dead.

Please answer your phone because I’m not sure I have what it takes to call again. I’ll have to start all over. It’s just a phone call. It’s just an appointment. It’s just Everest in the dead of winter. But I can do this. I can practice. I can train, I can breathe, but please answer your phone. It has taken everything for my numb fingers to reach out.

Jody Brooks lives and works in Atlanta, GA. Her work has appeared in DIAGRAM, Hobart, AQR, The Florida Review, New Flash Fiction, The South Dakota Review, The Southampton Review, and Denver Quarterly, among others. You can find her work at https://jodybrooks.com/.