I’m a broken butterfly, stuck in my cocoon

Anewly emerged butterfly can't fly.

That’s what I’m thinking as I make my coffee. Three ice cubes. Almond milk. Two scoops of coffee. Hot water. Sprinkle of sugar. Stir.

The flowers on my linen are faded from too many wash cycles. Once vibrant, with swirls of fuchsia and gray, the colors are now dull and almost unrecognizable.

Almost like me.

My beautiful butterfly is sleeping soundly, a luxury three-hour nap compared to the two-hour shifts I managed last night. Or didn’t manage.

My eyes struggle to stay open; it’s like I drink coffee merely for taste.

Her rosy cheeks match her dainty little outfit, her breaths are slow. Innocent, calm, and breathtaking.

She feels safe and secure. She knows her mama will hold her when she cries, feed her when she’s hungry, change her when she’s dirty, and shower her with love. She knows her mama will wrap her in her wings when her world is in turmoil. Her mama will always be there.

But her mama’s wings are clipped.

Her mama feels like she hasn’t even grown wings yet. Her mama is stuck in her cocoon.

My coffee is done. I gently place the mug on the floor next to my bed, along with half-empty water bottles, a few dirty tissues, and a diaper cream I forgot to close.

It’s three in the afternoon. Good morning, world.

Maybe just morning, actually.

Daddy is at work, hopefully remembering to pick up more formula on his way home. His wings aren’t clipped. They are strong, confident, ready. He’s eager to learn the contours of fatherhood, while his wife struggles, treading in a whirlpool of misery, and he doesn’t know how to help her.