The real postpartum: bedside table edition

Okay women, let’s shed the picture perfect matching outfits, take off the nursing bra and let all our postpartum woes hang out. It’s time for a dose of postpartum reality.
Life after childbirth is anything but glamorous. Many warrior women feel the need to put on a pretty facade, but catch us off-guard at any given time and you’ll find us in an ancient dressing gown; covered in breast milk, chocolate and whatever else that is stuck to the lapel. 
For those who think postpartum is all about ‘snapping back into shape’ and merrily adjusting to motherhood, it’s time for some schooling. We’re examining a postpartum woman’s natural environment to bring you a dose of reality.  

Enter: the bedside table

A woman’s journey from feigned postpartum organisation to fucking milk-splattered chaos can be seen in the evolution of her bedside table.
Ah, the bedroom. The place of respite, relaxation, sleep and sex. I shall need nothing but serene pottery, nautical memorabilia and a sleep mask. After all, I wouldn’t want the morning sunlight to wake me shy of 7AM.

It makes logical sense to have tissues on the bedside table; for blotting my lips, blowing my nose and ...mopping up the floods of baby bodily fluids that are constantly escaping every viable exit, as well as my breast milk that gets all over everything.

Oh crystal lamp, yes please. I need all that positive energy to enrich postpartum life. If I can't clean the house, the sheets or my hair, at least I can cleanse my soul.

Nipple SOS… my saviour for soothing my tender nipples and healing cracked skin and lips. I may just slather this all over my body to help heal the cracks in my spirit. 

Give me all the fucking H2O, I’m constantly thirsty. There is another human guzzling all my fluids and leaving me as dry as the Sahara. Note to self: look into getting a sink plumbed straight into the bedroom so I can run my head under the tap and cut out the middleman. 

Breast pumps. No point leaving these in the cupboard, they are constantly fused to my breasts when there isn’t a child there. This is no longer a bedroom. It’s a fucking milking warehouse.

Books, great for bedtime reading. My attention span is bloody fantastic at the moment. What a great time to read a shit tonne of parenting books. If I can make it through any of them, hopefully I’ll deduce that real human beings have survived this postpartum phase.

Is that baby poo? Oh, phew, it’s just the chocolate wrappers from my 3AM snack. When a small screaming human wakes you up every 90 minutes, there is no room for healthy snacks.

Postpartum warriors, what does your bedside table look like? Leave a comment below if we’ve missed out any new mum paraphernalia.

Naydaya. x

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