“Hi, Maria.” Her smile is warm as she greets me. “How are you feeling?”
I keep my voice low and soothing—a hint I’m hoping her medical degree will help her pick up on—and answer to the best of my ability. “Great, Dr. Maddox. I mean, tired, sure, but great. Things are really great. I’m great. Izzy’s great. We’re great.”
Wow, Ri, don’t oversell it.
Dr. Maddox’s brow automatically pinches together, and I don’t blame her. I sound about as confident in how things are going as I would if I were preparing to perform an operation with only a ten-minute YouTube video serving as my training.
“Are you still breastfeeding?”
Ugh. Two questions into this appointment and I already feel like a failure.
“I…uh…tried, but…yeah, I had to switch to bottle-feeding.”
To say I tried is putting it lightly. After having issues with Izzy’s latch from day one in the hospital, I continued to try even after I was discharged. I even hired three different lactation consultants and private nurses to make home visits to help, but all breastfeeding ever brought me was lots of stress, tears, and sore nipples.
I still hate that I couldn’t do it, knowing how important it was to my sister.
“Let me guess, issues with latching?”
“And my milk supply wasn’t exactly stellar.” I frown. “Though, I did keep pumping until my nipples were bleeding and I was only getting air back.”
“Well, that’s okay.” Dr. Maddox tries to reassure me. “The most important part, Maria, is that your baby is getting fed.” She glances at a gloriously sleeping Izzy and grins at me. “And by the looks of those adorable, chubby cheeks, I’d say you’re doing a good job.”
A good job? Ha. If I had to rate myself, I’d say I’m struggling to reach World’s Most Mediocre Mom.
“And what about rest? Are you getting sleep when you can?”
“Um…” I laugh nervously. Is that a real question?
Her smile turns upside down. “Rest is truly crucial for recovery from childbirth, Maria. I know it can be tough—”
Can be tough? Has she actually met a baby before?
“But the first six weeks postpartum aren’t just about bonding with the baby. They’re about actual physical recovery for the mother, too. And although you were incredibly healthy prior to your pregnancy and maintained that state of health during your pregnancy, you are considered advanced maternal age. You need rest, Maria.”
That’s her nice way of saying I’m old.
I almost counter her words by telling her about the fortysomething documentary lady who was running ten miles a day by week three postpartum. Surely her “old” ass wasn’t getting that much rest either.
“I…well, I’m doing what I can.”
“Would you be able to arrange for an extended leave from work?” she asks, turning to type on her iPad. “From what I’m hearing, I think that might be wise.”
I wince. How in the hell do I tell her that I already went back to work…two weeks ago?
Even if I wanted to stay on maternity leave, I didn’t have a choice. Without my sister’s and Oliver’s help running The Baros Group show, it’s all on me, and we have an enormous load of clients who aren’t willing to wait around while I “heal.” Not to mention, the agents I hired are still learning the ropes. They aren’t ready to be thrown into the shark-infested waters of high-end real estate without it turning into a Jaws-like situation.
She notices the look on my face, and evidently, I don’t have to tell her at all.
“Oh, Maria,” she chides softly, and I look down at the paper gown across my legs so I can fiddle with it. She sighs again, and it’s the weirdest feeling. For as much as she’s scolding me, I should be annoyed. I should feel attacked and righteous.
But I know, deep down, that she’s right. What I’ve been doing isn’t sustainable long-term. I just haven’t figured out a way around it yet.
“I’m definitely not going to ask when you went back to work because I have a feeling I’m not going to like your answer, but tell me this, you’ve hired a nanny, right? Maybe even a private nurse to take over some nights for you, too?”
I already failed breastfeeding. No way I can fail Isabella’s wishes related to nannies.
“Do you want an answer that’s going to make you happy or…?” I cringe, and Dr. Maddox lets out the kind of laugh that doesn’t come from humor.
“What am I going to do with you?”
That, Dr. Maddox, is a fantastic question. One I currently ask myself and Izzy about one hundred times a day.
“I tell you what,” she says finally, rolling over on her little stool to look up at me where I can’t avoid her eyes. “After the exam, I’m going to get you some numbers for support groups. Being a new mother is difficult, but it’s even more so when you’re doing it alone and without help.” She states the last two words with pointed emphasis. “I personally attended one of these after having my first, too, so you can rest easy that I’m not sending you to a cult or something.”