My Feet Are Different feat. Jenn Amua Paez

My Feet Are Different feat. Jenn Amua Paez



My feet look different.
Every time I look down at my feet,
they’re bigger and wider.
they don’t look like my feet.

It’s 3.43 a.m.
I’m eating my oatmeal porridge,
with the boppi around my chest.
My legs are straight in the bed
per the midwife’s orders.
“Keep your legs closed,” she says,
“so the stitches can heal.”
I’m 5 weeks postpartum.

My husband stands by the side of the bed
relentlessly patting our beautiful newborn
in hopes he may sleep.
Our one swaddle blanket is downstairs in the dryer.
Freshly washed, because it was filled with urine
from the last diaper change. Boys.
I’ve fed him three times now,
since we’ve been up for an hour.
It’s not what he wants.

We’ve done the protocol of the five S’s:
Turn on the side
Loud shooshing in their ear
Suck the pacifier

My breast stings from wanting to give more milk
to my baby who keeps crying.
We’re both up now, rather than just one of us,
as yesterday I had a six hour stint
on my first full ten hour day
without my husband here.

Six hour stint my baby was awake.
Only supposed to stay awake for an hour.
He was awake for six. I tried everything:
The vacuum.

Diaper changes.
Looking at things around the house.


My body feels ancient
My legs cramp even going down stairs.
My chest is heavy, my breasts are enormous.
One of them is half of my newborn’s body.

I just want a massage.
Yet due to the pandemic,
it’s challenging to find someone
who will come to your house.

I hear the dryer in our basement,
over and over and over...
Turning. Swirling.
In hopes our one swaddle blanket
will calm our newborn,
and we can get another 2 hours of sleep.

Artist Bio and words on the piece

Social Media / website for more info