5 Weeks Postpartum: What’s Actually Working? (Besides Snacks and Screaming into the Fridge)

As I sit here five weeks after bringing my daughter earthside, I can honestly say postpartum is a fever dream wrapped in mesh underwear, sealed with baby poop, and sprinkled with unsolicited advice.

I’ve talked a lot about the chaos so far—the tears, the healing, the identity crisis in Target’s diaper aisle, but today, I want to shift the vibe because if I’ve learned anything in these five weeks, it’s this:

We are all just out here winging it—sometimes gracefully, sometimes mid-meltdown—and somehow keeping tiny humans alive.

(Cue High School Musical in your head: “We’re all in this together…” You're welcome. Sorry.)

Some days, I feel like I’ve got this.

I prep a bottle with one hand, balance my baby in the other, and somehow manage to microwave my coffee without forgetting it inside for four hours.

I wear matching pajamas. I eat a real meal. I even text someone back on the same day they texted me which, if you know anything about me is that is a WIN.

I am the CEO of my household. I am a goddess in high-waisted compression leggings. I am… probably forgetting something very important.

And then other days?

I find myself staring into the fridge like it’s going to whisper parenting tips. I’m holding a bib in one hand, a remote in the other, and I’ve completely forgotten what I walked into the room for.

The baby’s fed. I, however, am running on leftover puffs, a warm Dr Pepper, and a half-chugged energy drink I found next to the baby monitor. Yes, I know it’s not great. Yes, I know it’s mostly chemicals and broken dreams. I’m just the unpaid intern holding the bottle and the emotional support pacifier.

I’ve started using baby wipes on myself and honestly? I’m not going back. Last night I used one to take off my makeup, clean the counter, and wipe baby puke off my shirt—all in the same five minutes. If that’s not the definition of “do-it-all girlie,” I don’t know what is.

And no, it’s not aesthetic. There are no beige matching sets. No wooden toys curated in rainbow order. No eucalyptus bundles in my shower. Just chaos. Crumbs. And one tired mom doing her best in leggings that haven’t seen daylight since Tuesday.

Hormones: a choose-your-own-adventure book, but every page is just “surprise tears.”

So let’s talk about what’s working.

Not just for me—for you. For us.

Because maybe your routine isn’t Pinterest-perfect. Maybe your “self-care” is hiding in the pantry with a snack you told your partner was “gone.” Maybe your win today was not yelling when the onesie snapped shut wrong on the first try.

That’s still valid. That still counts. That’s still a big f*cking deal.

I want to hear it all:

• What routines or rituals are saving your brain cells right now?

• What’s actually working for your baby (even if it makes zero logical sense)?

• What version of “self-care” are you doing that doesn’t feel like another item on a to-do list?

• What snack is keeping you from going full feral? (Mine is peanut butter on a spoon, a cold Dr Pepper, and judgmental stares at anyone who suggests I “nap when she naps.”)

This isn’t a place for perfect. This is a place for messy, magical, mildly feral motherhood.

For moms who are googling “is my baby broken” at 2 a.m. while bouncing on an exercise ball in the dark. For moms who haven’t showered in three days but know the difference between “I’m hungry” and “I dropped my pacifier and I’m furious.” For moms who packed 14 onesies and no pants.

So comment, text me, send a voice memo from the closet floor. Because the manual doesn’t exist. And if it did, it’d be printed in Comic Sans, laminated in breastmilk, and immediately thrown on the floor by a baby.

xoxo,

Vern

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