The Bad

OK, I finally have some time while Eleanor takes a nap.

I'm thrilled that she's here, but I am having a little trouble adjusting, I think. It's not the "baby blues" of the first two weeks, where I was sleep-deprived and crying and worried I'd made a big mistake. Whatever this is, it's manifesting itself in extreme self-doubt and anxiety. Which is not new for me, but motherhood gives it a whole new thing to attach to.

Basically I feel like I can't do anything right. How much should I be holding her? What kinds of things should I be doing with her when she's awake? Is it OK to put her in the swing for half an hour while I take a shower? Am I wrong to want her to sleep in her own bed, eventually even in her own room?

When she's awake, we sit in her room and play on her playmat. She'll lie on her back and look in the mirror, or at the dots and stripes on the arches. I'll flip her to her tummy and encourage her as she lifts her head and tries to roll over. I'll hold her upright, her favorite thing, and let her look into my eyes. I'll sing to her and make the "heh, heh, heh" noise to make her laugh. I'll read her a story, if she's willing to sit still long enough.

And once I've done all that, half an hour or so has gone by and she's still awake. And I have no idea what else to do. And, frankly, my arms are tired and I'm, well, a little bit bored.

We'll go to the mall in her stroller, and I'll look around at all the other moms with their strollers and wonder if they made up reasons to be there, like I did, just so I could get out of the house.

I'll go to lunch with two women I know from college who are home raising their kids, and then feel cold inside as they spend the whole time talking about how useless their husbands are (good men that I went to school with, men I've known as long as I've known them) and how their babysitters "preserve their sanity."

Other times, I'll go meet Andy for lunch at his office, and we'll sit outside on the MIT campus and eat lunch while the sun shines and a nice breeze blows and Eleanor coos at us, and I think I couldn't possibly be happier.

I'll nurse Eleanor in the recliner in her room, and she'll finish with a soft little sigh of satisfaction and fall asleep on my lap, and I think I could stay there forever.

I used to read five or six books a week. I haven't gotten through an entire one since Eleanor was born. I miss it.

I tried a politically correct baby sling and hated it. I returned it and bought a secondhand Bjorn.

I guess I just feel isolated. I don't know many other women at home, and the ones I do know, well, we don't have a lot in common. I try to get out as much as I can, but it's usually just Eleanor and me. I need to try harder to go to museums, and the zoo, and places like that instead of inventing errands to run.

And I feel so guilty that I feel this way. Aren't I supposed to be submerged in domestic bliss, or something? How can I love my baby and still feel this way? And then other times I get mad - why should I feel guilty? I'm still me. I should still have my own identity. Shouldn't I?

I'm trying to put Eleanor down for a nap whenever she seems really tired. Most of the time I guess right and she goes to sleep. Sometimes I guess wrong, and she's crying for me five minutes later, wide awake. And then I wonder, did I really think she was tired, or was I just hoping she was so I could check my e-mail?

I'm totally rambling. Is this making sense to anyone? Am I horrible?

I don't want to raise my daughter to feel this all-encompassing guilt.