Vicki Glembocki: A Letter to New Moms

I have just put my six-week-old baby's car seat in the cart at Babies "R" Us. I think we will be able to make it without incident — Pampers and out. This is my first baby and our first shopping trip solo. We have no choice. There are no Pampers left. And there is poop.

I fantasize that someone will peer into the cart and say, "Oh what a beautiful baby! So quiet! So content!" And that person will think, What a good mom that woman must be!

But as soon as the automatic doors close behind us, Blair starts to scream. The cries should sound familiar to me since, over the past six weeks, I've listened to them, constantly, for 10 or 11 hours a day. But they don't, because the cries are now ricocheting off the three-story-high ceilings, echoing down the aisles, filling up Babies "R" Us like a sonic boom. People start turning around.

These people don't care that I've slept a total of ten hours in the past month, that I haven't showered in three days, that I'm still — still — wearing maternity pants. They don't care that I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong breast-feeding that's keeping Blair from gaining weight, or what I'm doing wrong generally that's making her cry so much. They don't care that I call my husband at work hourly, sobbing so hard that I can't speak, can't ask him the question that's been clogged in the back of my throat for the past six weeks, Have we made a terrible, horrible mistake?

I bounce the cart up and down while inching toward the Pampers because we need the Pampers and I just can't leave, because this is my life now. As we pass the stroller department, I hear the voice of an older woman say, "Why doesn't she just give that child a binkie?" I begin to jog. I remember the mass of maxi pad that's taped between my legs to catch the blood and yuck that's still leaking from my body. I feel it shift. I feel it poke out of the right-leg hole of the enormous mesh underwear the maternity ward nurse sent home with me, threatening to break free, to slide down the leg of my black XL sweatpants and land in a clump of gross on the floor. I do not care.

I grab six packs of the Pampers, which is way more than I need but I don't care about that either, because hell knows we aren't going to be trying this shopping thing again anytime soon. "Hang in there, kiddo," I say to Blair, as we cut a path to the front of the store. "We can do this."

Except, when we get to the register, I realize I don't want to do this. I want to walk out of Babies "R" Us and leave Blair there, wailing, the V-shaped blue vein popping out of her forehead. Nice people work at Babies "R" Us. Surely someone will take her home and care for her and buy her pretty things. I look at the door and picture myself walking through it, into the parking lot, into the minivan, into my life as it was before, where I was a confident, able, reliable person. Where I laughed at myself. Where I never, ever felt the urge to run away from anything because it was hard. I feel my hands letting go of the bar on the cart, my body turning away, my right foot lifting …

"Is your baby okay?" asks the woman working the register.

"Yeah, she's just colicky," I say. But I'm not okay, I want to tell her. Something is wrong with me. I was so confused when, last week, my OB-GYN said I didn't have postpartum depression. I wanted PPD. I needed a diagnosis, a word, some official terminology to explain to my husband, and my mother-in-law, and this check-out lady at Babies "R" Us why I'm totally sucking at this mommy thing. Why I'm the only woman on the planet who doesn't have a maternal gene. Moms are supposed to instinctively know what to do, right? Every mom around me seems like she knows what to do. I don't know what to do.

Well, guess what? None of us know what to do. Not knowing what to do is normal. Freaking out? Normal. Not all over-the-moon about the baby? Normal. Wanting to kill your husband? Normal. (And, FYI, it doesn't end. Because we are always new moms … always facing something for the first time … always praying to God that we're making the right choices and cooking the right dinners and buying the right toys.) Of course, when my first was born, it took me nine months to figure this out, to get a grip, to realize that everyone — everyone — struggles with becoming a mom in one way or another. It took me nine months to discover I wasn't alone.

So I'm telling you now. You are not alone.

Vicki Glembocki is author of "The Second Nine Months: One Woman Tells the Real Truth About Becoming a Mom … Finally" and also a featured blogger on with her blog Blunt Force Mama.

About Katherine Stone

is the founder of Postpartum Progress. She has been named a WebMD Health Hero, one of the fiercest women in America by More magazine, and one of the top 20 Social Media Moms by Working Mother magazine. She is a survivor of postpartum OCD.

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  1. Thank you for sharing this. Oh my gosh I feel this way. I feel like nothing about mothering or nurturing children has ever been natural for me. I've always felt like a moron in the mothering department. Thank you for sharing this!
    Sue McRoberts

  2. oh, this one got me bawling. wonderful essay.

  3. Katherine Stone/Post says:

    I still have no idea what to do. It's amazing my children are in one piece and love me so much. Thanks for telling it like it is Vicki!

  4. Lauren Hale says:

    Vicki –
    Boy did you take me back. My first daughter was fussy and not at all shy about letting others know it. I would pray fervently each time we left the house that she would "Behave" just long enough for me to run my errands and get her strapped back into the car. My appointment with my doctor as I prepared to admit my depression was one of those times. The doctor ended up running late, she began to scream, anxiety set in big time, and I was not yet confident enough to nurse in public. I knew that was what she wanted but I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I just couldn't. I hated myself for denying my daughter food. Eventually I matured. I learned to trust myself. But I didn't do so until I realized I too, wasn't alone. That it was OK to not be perfect. As long as I learned, everything was going to be ok. I'm on my third (and final) child. And I'm still learning each and every day.

  5. I remember being at BRU wishing I had a button on that said "I have PPD" so people would get out of my way, move their carts for me, understand I was in a dark abyss, be nice to me… No one knew how broken I was inside. I also wanted to run over a slow-walking old lady in the parking lot! Fortunately neither of us followed through on our impulses. Thank you for sharing your story.

  6. I love this! I also had thoughts of 'what if we made a mistake'…now that my son is almost 5, I have NO regrets and love him more than my own life. But at the beginning I wasn't so sure. When you're sleep deprived and you haven't had a chance to form positive memories with your baby, it's hard to feel close to them. Thanks for a great article!