Author: Jane Rekrap

What is the “forgotten trimester?”

Pregnancy.  A phase of life generally divided into three neat and tidy trimesters, each consisting of approximately 13 weeks.  During the first, most women experience morning sickness (though for a lucky few like myself, the sickness is all-day, every-day).  During the second, most women rave about their energy returning, and the baby preparations kick into high gear.  And during the third and final, most women enjoy the baby kicks, while at the same time visiting the bathroom several times per day (or in some cases, per hour), sleeping moderately comfortably at best, and counting down the days until baby’s arrival.  And then… boom.  There is a new baby, and the world rejoices.

But what happens next?  What happens AFTER the new bundle of joy rocks the world of the parents?  What do we call this time of extreme highs and lows, of contentedness and anxiety?  The fourth trimester.  Or in American society particularly, the “forgotten trimester.”  The “trimester” that is actually the longest, and the hardest, during which some American women receive the least amount of support.

In thinking about my own experience, when our son arrived 4 years ago, his entry into the world was magical.  After a pregnancy fraught with hyperemesis, a protracted 20+ hour labor, ending with a semi-emergent caesarian section, the only thing that mattered was that he was finally here—healthy, screaming, kicking, and rocking our world.  What followed for me was a week of difficult recovery, followed by a maternity leave where I constantly felt unsure of myself in this new role of “motherhood,” trying to console a colicky baby.  All of the doctors that had followed me closely during pregnancy were gone.  No one was asking me “how are you feeling?” every hour of every day.  I was no longer going to work, to social outings, etc.  Instead, we lived in a 1 bedroom apartment at the time.  While it had beautiful pre-war charm, it was tiny.  Our son actually lived in a converted walk-in closet (before anyone calls DCFS, rest assured that it was beautiful—it fit a micro-crib, a set of drawers, and even had a painting on the wall).  My wife, my rock and support, was in residency at the time and was working literally 100+ hours per week.  Many of her “working hours” were actually night shifts, meaning that I was on my own during the night, and during the day she desperately needed sleep, so I was tasked with keeping our colicky son relatively quiet in the very small space of our apartment.  There were days where the only “person” I talked to was our son, a teeny tiny human who couldn’t respond, and for a while, couldn’t even give me a smile to encourage me in the dark hours (literally and figuratively).  While I loved him immensely, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad for myself.  Thoughts of “maybe this would be easier if we lived in a house with more than 1 bedroom,” and “maybe this would be easier if my wife didn’t work night shifts” often crept into my mind.  I felt isolated because despite living in Chicago, one of the biggest cities in the nation, I rarely left the apartment for fear of our son erupting in public, and me not being able to console him.  We got through my maternity leave, but it was a struggle.  Looking back, I do have fond memories of the bonding time we had—watching Gilmore Girls and The Ellen Show while he slept in my arms (because if I dared put him down, he’d cry immediately!) but I also wondered if there were things I could have done, or things I could have let others do, that would have helped me thrive during my maternity leave instead of just survive. 

Fast forward 4 years later, as we welcomed our youngest—a new baby girl.  This time would be different, I told myself.  For starters, my wife was no longer in residency and was working a “normal” job, so I wouldn’t be alone during the seemingly endless nights.  And, we had also moved.  No more 1 bedroom apartment!  Instead, we were out in the suburbs, with a lovely house wherein everyone had their own room (and no one slept in a closet), a backyard, a porch with a swing on it, etc. 

But was my maternity leave really that different?  Yes and no.  Yes, the extra space in our house proved to be helpful, and having my wife be more available and not working night shifts was amazing.  I got out of the house more.  I tried harder to maintain social contacts and establish “routines,” even if they were simple things like making myself a decaf Nespresso latte and then taking the baby for a long morning stroll.  And, this time we were blessed with a very easy-going, happy baby in comparison to our first two.  (Seriously, on the Richter scale, with 1 being a small tremor that was noticeable, but didn’t really disrupt your life, and 10 being a major earthquake that leveled buildings, created maximum destruction, and seriously impacted the ability to carry on with life, our first was about a 7, and our second was a sold 10.  This baby girl was/remains approximately a level 1.)  At the same time, some of those same struggles from my first maternity leave resurfaced—feelings of isolation, not being confident that I was doing “the mothering thing” the correct way (spoiler alert- after 3 babies we’ve learned that essentially they’re all different, what works for one will undoubtedly not work for the next, and sometimes you just have to take a stab in the dark until you figure it out), and wondering when the “mom-guilt” would ease up.  I constantly felt like I wasn’t doing enough for anyone—for myself, my wife, my two “big kids,” my baby, my friends; you name it, I felt like I was failing.

So what is the fourth trimester?  It’s the forgotten trimester—the weeks/months following a birth when all moms, whether first-time moms or seasoned veterans, need a little extra help.  A little extra love and support.  It’s hard.  Contrary to what one of my colleagues said to me before I left for maternity leave, it’s not “a vacation.”  (To which my response was a simple eye-roll.) 

I firmly believe that all moms struggle, at least a little, on maternity leave— but as moms, so many of us try to keep our superhero capes on and not let anyone know we’re struggling.  Our lives might look picture-perfect for Facebook and Instagram, but there’s always more to it.  The logical side of my brain says that there has to be a better way.  There just has to be more we can do to help moms during this time.  And, there has to be more that we can do to help ourselves!  So now I’ve made it my Mount Everest—it’s time to figure out how to better conquer the forgotten trimester.

It all started with Mother’s Day.

It all started with Mother’s Day.  I’ll never forget what I envisioned that beautiful May morning being, versus what reality had in store.  While I had hoped it would be a great celebration of our entry into the land of parenting three children under the age of five, it turned out to be a slippery slope into what would be the harsh reality of the struggles of the forgotten trimester.

You see, Mother’s Day is twice as nice in our household, since we’re a two-mom family.  In my mind, I pictured a quiet Sunday morning— sun shining, birds chirping, flowers blooming.  Maybe we would make pancakes for breakfast.  Our 4 year old son and 2 year old daughter would give us the gifts they slaved over at school that week prior.  Maybe we would go on a family stroll to the park, toting our newly-minted 10 day old baby girl and sipping coffee (decaf for me), and wishing all other mom’s along the way a “happy Mother’s Day.”  I would truly get out of the house for the first time since my c-section, and take our daughter to her gymnastics class.  And by 10:00 a.m., we’d be relaxed at home, popping a bottle of champagne, and indulging in some mimosas while enjoying a very rare schedule-free day, complete with pizza and a Disney movie for dinner, all while enjoying new baby snuggles.  It would be pure bliss.

In reality, that’s not quite what happened.  Not even close, actually.

It started a few days before Mother’s Day.  My wife announced that her sister would like to come over on Sunday and bring her kids to meet our new bundle of joy.  “Sunday?” I asked her.  “Yes, Sunday,” she said.  “That’s Mother’s Day,” I said.  “Yes, it is—is that okay?” she asked.

And herein lies mistake number 1:  I should have said “No.  I would prefer to have Mother’s Day be spent with just us, because we’re both mom’s and we have a new baby, and I’d really like to just have a relaxed day without the pressure of visitors.”  But what did my people-pleasing self say?  “Sure… that’s fine.  How about a QUICK morning visit so that we can enjoy the rest of the day?”  I figured that it would be selfish to be honest and say “no;” after all, it is her Mother’s Day too.  And just like that—my relaxed and unscheduled day suddenly had a schedule.

Saturday fell upon us.  My wife announced that there had been a slight alteration in plans—my wife’s dad (my kids’ Grandfather) would also be joining the gathering.  So now there would be an extra person at my house on Mother’s Day.  Although I adore my father-in-law, and was glad that my kids would see him, my level of anxiety heightened.

The big day arrived—Sunday.  Mother’s Day.  We woke up, I pumped, we all hurriedly ate some pancakes, the big kids gave us their homemade presents (which were lovely), and I scooted out the door with our daughter to gymnastics while my wife stayed behind with our son and new baby girl.  Honestly, I don’t even think either one of us even paused to wish the other a happy Mother’s Day. 

After shepherding our two year old through toddler gymnastics (always chaotic but fun), and trying to ignore the pain in my c-section scar because I kept telling myself that movement was good for me, and that I needed to spend some bonding time with our other kids, and not just the baby, I drove home.  I thought I would have 10 minutes to apply some makeup before our guests arrived.  Instead, I arrived and they were already there.  Shoot.  My opportunity to look presentable was missed.  I instinctively start criticizing myself—despite a sleepless night with the baby, maybe I should have gotten up 20 minutes earlier, and forfeited ever-precious sleep, to ensure I had makeup on.  Next time, I vowed.

So, I unload our two year old, and we walk from the garage into the house where we find… mass chaos.  Our son had just opened a gift—a new toy construction truck large enough to take up all of the space in our playroom (or so it felt to me), there was wrapping paper still scattered on the floor, and there were children running all over the place while eating snacks.  I couldn’t help but keep my type-A personality from thinking, “okay, after they leave we’ll just have to spend a few minutes cleaning up the trash, sweeping the floors, and finding a place for this new giant construction truck to go.  THEN we will enjoy a quiet Mother’s Day.”  I could feel my anxiety rising, yet again. 

I looked around a bit more and spotted our new baby girl in the living room with my wife, looking miraculously contented despite the high noise volume in the house, but clearly looking like she was in need of food.  I say my polite but quick “hello” to my sister-in-law and nephew and nieces, and walk over and offer to feed the baby.  Not being a confident breast-feeder, and having a new baby struggling to get the hang of it, I offer to take her upstairs for a bit, out of the commotion (and to a place where I could have some privacy).  We go upstairs, and I try to get her to latch.  It was no good.  She must have sensed my stress, because after 15 minutes of trying, she barely latched, and I was confident she got close to zero volume.  I vow to try again later, and really devote a “long time” to helping her, once our guests have left.  And THEN we’d enjoy a quiet Mother’s Day. 

I walk back down stairs where I find… a continuation of mass chaos.  Now, our daughter has opened a gift, new book, and is trying to “read” the book, but in reality is mostly just ripping the pages on accident.  No one is helping her.  There is even more wrapping paper on the floor.  And I can hear some sort of banging noise coming from the basement where our son is playing with his older cousins.  I try to ignore the banging sound, and I approach the room of adults (my wife, sister-in-law, and father-in-law) and ask, likely in a somewhat agitated tone, whether someone can please either help our daughter read the book or else put it away and re-direct her to another toy.  Thinking it would be too absurd to ask that someone else please go downstairs and see what the banging is, I channel my inner Elsa and decide to “let it go.” 

I ask my wife to please heat a bottle for the baby.  I had been pumping frequently, so we had plenty of breastmilk for her.  She willingly complies.  I ask if she would mind feeding the baby a bottle while I pump again, because my engorged breasts needed to be pumped since our nursing session hadn’t really gone well.  “No problem,” she says, with a calm smile on her face.

My father-in-law announces, as I’m heading upstairs to pump, that he’s leaving.  I tell him goodbye, and head upstairs to the quiet sanctuary that is the nursery before my breasts explode. 

About three minutes in to my pump session, just as I’m relaxing and my letdown is finally happening, I get a text from my wife asking if her sister can take our two oldest kids and her three kids to the nearby park to play.  It was meant to be a nice gesture—to keep them out of our hair for a few minutes.  I tell my wife that it’s fine with me, but it needs to be a somewhat abbreviated trip.  So much for my request that we just have a “quick” morning visit with her sister—it’s nearly lunch time.

And then, it happened.  The event that unraveled me.  I was sitting in the nursery, which happens to have a window overlooking our backyard, pumping and trying to calculate how many ounces of milk our baby girl had already had that morning.  I hear commotion, so I look outside.  I see all five kids (our two year old and four year old, and their three older cousins) playing in the backyard, and one of the cousins gets out a wagon (presumably to pull the kids to the park).  Our two kids get in to the wagon.  I keep waiting and watching for an adult to appear—surely someone is either standing in the yard in a place where I just can’t see them, or they’re on their way out the door.  One of the cousins starts to pull the wagon around the yard, at a run, with our kids in the back.  I can hear them squealing with delight, which makes the cousin pull them faster and faster.  Now it’s getting a little precarious—they’re taking the corners quickly, and they keep bumping over the sidewalk that leads from our house to the garage.  I can tell it’s getting dangerous.  But, I’m attached to a pump, not able to move very easily, and I keep thinking that surely an adult will appear outside and tell them to slow down, so I just need to relax and stop being a control freak. 

And herein lies mistake number 2: I should have gotten up immediately, disconnected the pump, and marched my very sore post-c-section body back down stairs to find out why there were no adults in the backyard.  Instead, I wait a fraction of a second too long.  I look outside, see the wagon rounding a corner, and it hits the sidewalk at an odd angle.  Our two precious kids go flying—one hits the sidewalk forehead first, and the other lands on top, with their head also hitting the sidewalk after first bouncing off of the side of our garage.  There is instant crying—and yet, no one appears.

Never before have I torn my pump off so quickly.  I race down the stairs, c-section scar howling in pain, shouting to my wife and sister-in-law that they need to get outside quickly, because the wagon has tipped over and both of our kids were hurt.  In my mind, I’m quite positive that we’re going to be spending the next few hours in the ER getting stitches, if not addressing something worse, like broken teeth or broken bones.  They both rush outside, with me on their heels, to find that now, both of our children have scrapes on their heads (luckily, nothing serious enough to require stitches, but enough to leave bruises for over a week).    I quickly examine our daughter, move on to examine our son, who immediately asks for an ice-pack through his tears, and announce forcefully that I’m going to get an ice-pack for them, and that there will NOT be a journey to the park today.  Today’s visit is officially over. 

My wife follows me as I huff back into the house, clearly livid and stressed (and in physical pain), pump bottles still dangling underneath my shirt, leaving our kids outside with their aunt and cousins.  (If you’re wondering where our 10-day old baby was at the time—don’t worry.  She was safe and sound in a carrier, having finished her bottle).  That’s when the last two hours of stress and anxiety float to the surface and escape in the form of yelling.  I’m not proud of it.  I tell my wife that this is not acceptable.  I ask why two able-bodied adults were inside the house while five young children were outside, completely unsupervised.  I tell her I felt like I had to do everything—supervise, clean up, pump, etc. and that no one else was helping.  I tell her that I need to go finish pumping now.  And I tell her that her sister needs to leave.

As I re-attached my pump, alone and upstairs, still watching the scene unfold in the backyard, I cried.  Giant, alligator-sized tears, complete with sobs.  I cried for our kids (who by now were okay, and enjoying the novelty of having an ice-pack).  I cried for our baby girl (who, although un-phased, heard me yell for the first time at the ripe old age of ten days old).  I cried because of hormones.  I cried because of being overly-tired.  I cried because of being in physical pain from the c-section, and from having bleeding nipples.  I cried because I was disappointed in myself (for not being honest, for losing my temper, for building up a “perfect Mother’s Day” in my mind, for not doing “enough” to protect our kids in that moment).  And I cried because I felt invisible… like no one saw me, or cared that this was my Mother’s Day, too.

Needless to say, the rest of our Mother’s Day was shot.  There were no mimosas.  There was no joyous time with all five of us, just happily playing and bonding.  By the time we got the kids calmed down and fed lunch, and napping, I needed to pump again.  And now in addition to my other physical grievances, I had a splitting headache from crying.  I can pretty much pin-point that Mother’s Day morning as a turning point.  I didn’t feel like my wife and I were on the same page, and I felt robbed of my Mother’s Day.  We spent the rest of the day basically putting on a good face for the kids, so that they wouldn’t know there was tension, and keeping our distance from each other.  Distance.  That’s not what Mother’s Day should be about.  And it’s not the type of relationship my wife and I had ever had before.  Things were so tense that I didn’t even open the Mother’s Day card that she gave to me, instead asking her to put it away for next year.

As I went to sleep that night, however, I did what I always do: I reflect on the day, say my prayers, and think about 3 things (minimum) that I’m grateful for from that day specifically.  It’s a great exercise and I highly recommend it—because even on what seems like a disastrous day, you can ALWAYS find three things to be grateful for.  For me, the things I was grateful for on the worst Mother’s Day I’ve ever had were: (1) later that afternoon our baby girl got her first deep latch, meaning that for the first time since she was born I was able to nurse her pain-free; (2) I was able to take our two year old to gymnastics (which is special because I’m not her preferred gymnastics buddy), and (3) I was able to recognize that I was in a different time in my life now.  Pregnancy, and all that went along with it, was over—I conquered all 3 trimesters (and the hyperemesis gravidarum that came with it for me).  But now it was time for me to accept and conquer a new phase in my life: the forgotten trimester.