Imperfectly Messy Progress

10:00. The girls are in bed. Geoff and I are on the couch talking, watching TV, unwinding. A summer breeze dances through the open bay window. We grilled shrimp kabobs tonight. Savannah inhaled them, asking incessantly for “more chicken” (because if we call it shrimp, she won’t eat it … go figure). The girls played together during bath. When Molly peed in the water Savannah let her have it: “No, Molly, that’s naughty!” I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt.

11:00. Geoff and I head to bed. He’s asleep in five minutes. I’m not. Thoughts of what we did today and of what we have to do tomorrow flood my brain. What if I don’t sleep tonight? How will I survive tomorrow? I feel the panic set in, but I refuse to take anything to calm me down. Not tonight. I want to do this myself. Somewhere in my distorted mind, Pinocchio says that taking medicine is cheating. His nose grows, but I believe him. I bury my face in the pillow, anxious and frustrated because damnit, tonight was so lovely.

Progress is confusing.

I like things linear and consistent; recovering from postpartum anxiety is neither.

This morning after a long, restless night, I woke up tired and defeated, overwhelmed with the day ahead of me. At 7:00, Molly’s cries cut through the monitor like knives. Every inch of my body screamed “no!” as I shuffled miserably to her room and peeked over the side of her crib.

She saw my face and stopped crying. A big, gummy grin exploded across her face.

And I smiled back – a real smile that I felt deep in my chest, not a forced one like three months ago. And I woke her sister and we all put on sunscreen and went outside to water flowers. And we ate leftover “chicken” for lunch and then they napped while I wrote. And tonight we’re grilling hot dogs and making popcorn and renting movies.

And I think that means that I’m winning.

I think that means I’m making progress.

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