Freedom | "Not without my daughter!"

"When's your due date, honey?" asked a lady with a dapper hairdo and professionally styled make up in the Karstadt Beauty department the other day, while meticulously inspecting my facial skin, which had been suffering from dry heating air and breast-feeding hormones, under a large magnifying glass. "Seven weeks ago," I answered wearily, instantly regretting the decision to leave the house that day. If people think you're pregnant even though you're not, you might take it as a motivation for thinking about sports and dieting. But mistaking a recent mother for a mother to-be can be reason enough for her to break out in tears and fall into a deep, dark depression, at least for a couple of minutes. And to think I had been looking forward to the post-natal phase for so long!

I explained to my boyfriend yesterday morning that I needed a break from breastfeeding, burping, changing diapers, breastfeeding, burping and changing diapers again and actually convinced him to take the stroller outside and go Christmas shopping while I set out to redeem an old birthday coupon for "Bobby Brown's After-Work Beauty Session. Finally, some freedom! But even though my daughter was probably going to be napping the entire time, I immediately became anxious. This was the first time we were going to be separated for more than 15 minutes. I nervously fingered my cell phone every couple of minutes and couldn't seem to relax entirely even though my perfectly manicured beautician was doing her  very best to scramble out of the huge verbal hole she had just dug for herself with the due-date comment. "I'm sorry, I don't have any children." I tried to smile and she continued by saying "Bobbi believes that makeup can make women look and feel like themselves – just a little bit more confident and a little bit more beautiful." This is when my boyfriend shows up, crying child in tow: "I think she's hungry!!!" Meanwhile, my cell phone is vibrating like wild. It's "Mama mobile" calling.

How did I get this absurd idea into my head that I needed to do something for myself, when really, my social life consists of family visits and spending time with other mothers that couldn't care less about how much makeup I have on. Struck by this sudden realization, I grab my daughter and rush to our car. I need to get home now, with or without Bobbi's finish shimmer brick compact rouge on my cheeks. My XL pregnancy trench coat waves around in the wind as I hold my screaming baby in my arms between two well-rounded breasts. I put my foot down on the gas and shoot through the congested traffic. Up the stairs we go, two steps at a time, ignoring the flabbergasted neighbor in the hall. I just want to be in my own four walls. Shut the door and – yes, there it is, the homely smell of dirty diapers. Tears stream down my face as I stumble over single sneakers and a box of Christmas decorations that has been waiting for someone to take it down to the basement since the 2nd Advent. But I don’t care now, all I want is to head into the bedroom, where I've been spending 220 per cent of my time since giving birth a few weeks ago. Just me and the baby.

In the heat of this panic attack, I left my boyfriend waiting at Karstadt. But right now I'm thinking he can go jump in a lake for all I care, or better yet, take the Bobbi Brown beautician out for a Glühwein, since he's so into slim girls. I put my breast out and when I hear my baby sucking away with a blissful sigh, I suddenly feel utterly relaxed. Right now, it feels like my daughter is the only person on the planet that understands me and doesn't drive me up the wall. I heave a sigh of relief. My daughter's wishes seem so mundane: Feeding, burping, diaper change, feeding, burping, diaper change. Other newborn's mothers might seem unpredictable and even legally insane. And I admit that right now, I'm consumed by my own world. But I'm not ready to burst out of it quite yet. Especially not without my daughter.

(sjb)