After the fourth

I’m still in postpartum clothes, stained and stretched.

⠀

I’m still wearing my hair whichever way is easiest, messy and practical.

⠀

I’m still healing post birth, undoings forever hidden under the doings.

⠀

I’m still up feeding him every few hours day and night, exhausted and worn.

⠀

I’m still carrying him everywhere, littleness heavier and arms stronger.

⠀

I’m still changing nappies and soaking spills, repeated and relentless.

⠀

I’m still anchored at home mostly, under him and on top of nothing.

⠀

I’m still drinking too much coffee and living off love, cup empty and heart full.

⠀

I’m still learning so much about us, him first and me second.

⠀

I’m still tired.

⠀

I’m still hormonal.

⠀

I’m still in a bubble of love.

⠀

Yet it’s not still the newborn phase.

Or the fourth trimester.

It’s 6 months postpartum.

And 3 months post the fourth.

⠀

But it’s also zero months.

It’s zero months post the stage of still being needed.

It’s zero months post the stage of still being there.

It’s zero-months post still being his still.

⠀

There’s still mothers everywhere in the fifth, sixth, seventh and tenth trimesters.

Tired eyes and wakeful babies.

Sore bodies and postpartum lapses.

Doing much the same as in the fourth,

But they don’t get any title, or classification or justification other than “tired Mama”.

And they don’t get the same support,

Other than from the hands that will always be there.

⠀

They can feel washed away in the tide that still crashes.

Forgotten in memories that they are still making.

Unimportant in the work that remains of the upmost meaning.

⠀

Mama, who is past the fourth,

I see you.

You still matter.

You may not get the privilege of a number anymore,

But remember you are still someone’s number one.