Being postpartum in the winter is not for the faint of heart. For a body and mind undergoing a major rebuilding while caring for a helpless newborn, three other children, and a husband—cold + dark + raging bodily change = difficult mix. On the bright side, it is the perfect season for warm, hearty comfort food, oversized sweats, and blankets. Those aspects are prime for postpartum life.

This was my second time navigating the postpartum fog in the dead of winter. The first time was with Lucy, and if you’ve followed my journey, you know just how wild those first few months were.

After Thanksgiving, I threw myself into holiday cheer. Zach and I celebrated 10 years of marriage on December 4th. A whole decade. It’s a bizarre feeling because, in some respects, it feels like no time has passed at all. Then I look around at what we’ve created, and ten years sounds about right.

I love anniversaries just as much as I love birthdays. Both serve as a beautiful reminder of your beginnings and who you were when you started. It’s an important opportunity to examine the foundation upon which your life was built. I can still recall every minute of our wedding day, and I always smile when I remember people telling us, “We never saw two people have more fun at their own wedding.” Feeling an innate joy so strong that everyone in the room feel it and see it is powerful. Life gets serious and things get hard, but if you dig deep and reconnect with the joy that brought you together in the first place, it can lighten your load in even the darkest winter days. I realized through this postpartum how important it is to remember and focus on foundation.

That being said, I can’t actually recall what we did for our 10-year anniversary—if we even did anything at all! We couldn’t travel because of Katie, and Peter had his tonsils out a week after it. We probably went to dinner somewhere, but I guess it wasn’t that memorable. I blame my postpartum brain. We do plan to take a trip at some point to make up for the lack of a proper celebration.

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Katie’s baptism was scheduled for December 20th, and her plunge into Catholicism officially kicked off Christmas week.

The baptism was beautiful. It was just our little family and our immediate families—which, for us, is basically the size of a small wedding. Zach’s sister and her husband even flew in from California, meaning we both had our immediate families there.

I enjoy baptisms for the same reasons I love birthdays and anniversaries: we take time out of the rush of daily life to dress up and welcome a new little person into the world. Yes, the tradition means they are becoming Catholic, and I mostly believe in what that entails, but to me, the core of it is showing this new baby that they belong to a loving community. They never have to face life’s hardships alone because they are surrounded by people who have known them from the very start, always ready to lend a hand.

It’s also wonderful for the other littles to see that so many people are willing to show up for them again and again. A strong foundation in family and faith is a reminder to the rest of us to reflect on our own beginnings, why we choose to baptize our children, and why our parents chose to baptize us. There’s that reminder of foundation again. It’s not just about faith in God; it’s about faith in each other. It’s about letting these babies know they will never lose their way.

We chose my oldest nephew and niece to be Katie’s Godparents. I am grateful that I’ve been able to be so present in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives, and now they are just as present for my babies. They were so sweet and gracious about it. It’s indescribable to see all these kids growing up together and looking out for each other. We have a unique dynamic.

Of course, a couple of days after the party, a stomach bug spread like wildfire through both sides of the family, and my Dad tested positive for Covid. Baptism by virus! Talk about a family that shares everything. When Peter was baptized, eight people walked away from the party with Covid, including myself. I think God is trying to tell me either to stop having kids, or if I do, stop baptizing them, because the event will inevitably be a super-spreader.

So much for holiday cheer! My poor Dad had back surgery for Thanksgiving and then Covid for Christmas. Our plans for Christmas dinner at my parents’ house had to be rescheduled. We did manage Christmas Eve at the Ells’ house, and everyone was supposed to come to our place for Christmas brunch, but a few were down and out with the stomach bug, so that didn’t fully pan out either.

Selfishly, I was thankful my little crew remained healthy. I think it was the first Christmas since having children that everyone was healthy and not cranky—a massive win with four children. An actual MERRY Christmas for all? A miracle!

The last time we had a tiny baby at Christmas was when Lucy was born, and she was even younger at two months old. Watching Katie’s eyes light up with wonder as she took in the commotion was so special. Now that she is mobile and her crazy little personality is shining, I think this upcoming holiday is going to be even more magical for her and her big siblings.

While I felt let down that the order of events didn’t go as planned, it ended up being a relaxing holiday overall. The Sprandio Christmas was pushed to the following week once everyone was healthy, so we eventually got all of our celebrations in.

For New Year’s Eve, kind of last minute we decided to throw a “Noon Year’s Eve” party for the kids, their cousins, and their friends. It was our first time trying it, and it felt so good to host a big party just for the littles. The house was filled with so much joy and excitement—it was good for the soul and the perfect way to close out 2025. And Katie was a dream baby. She was passed from person to person enjoying the sights and sounds. I felt like we had a handle on things and it was going to be a good start to the new year.

While I enjoyed the holidays, once mid-January hit, the feelings of winter dreariness and rage came back. I know I definitely experienced postpartum rage. My two boys are sweethearts, but like most boys, they are in constant motion and always making noise. They drove me insane. I feel bad saying that as if they are to blame. Of course they aren’t. As my physical pain improved, my mental capacity for the chaos lagged behind. I felt constantly uneasy and ready to snap at the smallest things. I would scream at them because the gentle approach failed every time. They’d scream back. I’d say don’t scream and they’d come back with, “well, you’re screaming!” Intelligent kids. We’d all cry, and on we went.

The guilt is heavy. I was constantly worrying that I was messing up, or messing them up, because I couldn’t regulate my own emotions. I don’t want them thinking, oh Mom is just an old crank. But seeing how happy they are every day, and how kind they are to others, I think maybe I am doing better than I give myself credit for. But I wasn’t always allowing myself to see that.

I saw a poem on Instagram (@lettersfromamama) that described well how it felt/feels:

Children are so accepting and forgiving. I learn so much from them daily. I need and want to start living more like them. The beautiful innocent joy. It’s sad we grow up and we lose a large part of that. I hope I can guide them to keep the innocent joy as they grow.

During that time, I was also feeling irritated with big Zach, and the kids could see it. The perks of him working from home are innumerable, but one of the major cons is too much togetherness. He was working late a lot, leaving me to hustle with all four. Trying to keep four children quiet in a bathtub that is right across the hall from his office, yeah that’s like a Herculean task. That’s probably when most of the chaos occurred. By the end of the day I was so touched out, but I wasn’t done yet. Zach would come out and shout, why can’t you just wait for me! But, I couldn’t. I was depleted. I needed them to be in bed and not need me for at least a few hours, God willing. To be fair, he was right. I should have waited. Who cares if they went to bed at 8:30 instead of 8. But my brain told me over and over, you have to do this yourself. Just get it done. My brain wanted to turn off and getting them to bed and settled was the finish line, so I would get rageful to get there. And Zach would get short with them too, which he honestly rarely does. He doesn’t even get short with me often. I’ve often said to him over the years, you can be mad ya know. I’m the “crank” so to speak. I am the one to break up the party. Seeing him get short with them upset me, like what the heck is he so mad for! What is he going through that is making him so dark? His reactions also made me look at myself. Zach was taking the lead from me. I was setting the tone.

I find it hard and unfair that because I am mostly the default parent, my attitude dictates the entire atmosphere of the house. Truly, it all rests on me. I have to be “on” 24/7. And it took me four children to realize how much the household vibe depends on my feelings. During those months, I was really no better than an emotionally unregulated three, five, or seven-year-old. Maybe that’s why I get along so well with my kids; I’m basically on their level most of the time. From being emotionally unregulated to the other extreme of innocence and joy. I knew I needed to rise above the feelings, but postpartum wasn’t allowing me to. I didn’t have the energy. I was carrying so much of the emotional and mental load.

I ran out of the capacity to emotionally regulate myself while living in a house full of people who are still learning how to emotionally regulate—husband included. Recipe for chaos. They certainly weren’t learning much from me during those months. Or maybe they were learning how not to be. I just have this idea in my head that they’re starting to think Mommy is a wacko, in a bad way. And I feel like I have to apologize to them all the time.

Zach has always liked to sleep in (so have I) and has struggled with the reality that life isn’t like that anymore for us, which I rationalized by telling myself he works hard and needs the rest. But, what about me? Why am I always so ready and willing to put myself last? Why don’t I think I deserve rest? Why was I feeling like I wasn’t doing enough? I am all about giving Moms credit and sticking up for fellow women, but I wasn’t sticking up for myself.

I was up some nights with either Katie (she actually is one of our better sleepers) or Peter, and then living out a full day with them. I mean it wasn’t anything different from the early days of Lucy and Zachary, but it was hitting me harder. Granted, the big two were in school and I always have help from my Mom, but I was burning myself out for what reason? All the while, I was making excuses for Zach, which in retrospect only made me resent him. We were operating like passing angry ships with our cannons poised. Any snide comment was returned with a defensive blow.

I thought it would be easier too with the big two being in school, but it was actually harder because I had to rejoin the “real world” and be involved in things before I was ready. In the past, everyone was still home when I brought a new baby home. There wasn’t much responsibility to the outside world and we could huddle up as a unit. But, now, the other kids had lives. I said yes to things thinking I could handle more and then ended up bailing because I just wasn’t ready to do whatever. Other Moms can hop right up and get to it and pile it all on, why am I not like that? I like the take it slow approach to the world, but the world isn’t like that. The first couple months of school, every day we’d come home by 3pm and I’d try to get Lucy settled with homework and every time Katie decided that was the time that she absolutely NEEDED to nurse. Like, it was clockwork almost every day. As soon as we walked in the door, Katie would howl and howl until I threw her on the boob. Lucy put up a huge fuss because she was the only one who had homework every night. Zachary was in Kindergarten and only had it on Fridays. So I had to try and wrangle Lucy, get her set at the dining room table to supervise her homework while I sat in the corner nursing Katie and begging the boys to play either in the living room or basement because the dining room was off limits so Lucy could focus and they couldn’t play upstairs because Daddy was working. So if they didn’t want the basement, then they’d have to play quietly in the living room, which is physically impossible for them. They can’t play quiet, it’s not in their DNA. It was nuts and that’s where my rage would start to bubble. And by bath time I was just like, God take me now. I won’t even be mad. Just whisk me away from these tiny monsters I have created.

I promise, I am trying to break away from this wacky notion that if I’m not burning myself out and giving every single ounce of myself to the kids and Zach, then I’m not doing it right. But it’s hard because I realize I’ve been in that mindset since Lucy was born. And this fourth time around I really pushed myself over the edge.

The combination of winter and having an on-demand, breastfed baby kept me trapped inside. Meanwhile, Zach was always upstairs working. I started calling his office the Rapunzel Tower because it has a window that looks out over our front pathway and the neighborhood.

I felt angry with Rapunzel, getting to sit in his little tower while I did everything else. And yes, Zach works really hard and is very good at what he does, blah blah. Obviously, I couldn’t live out my role unless he successfully did his. But this is my space and he’s not here. So no apologies. Rapunzel pissed me off. Knowing he was behind that door, knowing that I had to respect his space and keep the house quiet, it’s been six years of this and it can still be hard. I worked here first! It’s hard to kick the feeling of “performing” too. Like someone is always listening in and judging, even though most of the time he’s on the phone or listening to music so he’s not as aware as I make myself think he is.

I was so exhausted. Not even from not sleeping well because I was getting some decent sleep considering the amount of tiny humans. My brain was so tired. I don’t know if I ever felt such mental fatigue before. And, yet, amidst the brain fatigue, I had times of feeling so fulfilled. I can remember before we decided to go for a fourth, I told Zach I felt like someone was missing. We’d all be together and this weird flash would go through my head of, “where’s the baby?” Well, that feeling is definitely gone now. We are ALL here and accounted for. Doesn’t feel like anybody else needs to be joining this rodeo.

People have said, “Four kids! How do you do it?” I think to myself, I do it insanely and badly. I also do not do it alone. Obviously, Rapunzel is always around. And so is my village. I never admitted it was too much, but looking back, it was a lot. Why is it so hard to admit when things are hard? Why does my brain convince me that I am less of a Mom if I confess that I’m hanging by a thread? Haven’t I learned by now it’s okay to say, hi I’m drowning! I guess I’m afraid people will say, “Well, then why did you have four?” Because, believe it or not, I have been asked that by strangers. Or people will put on a pity face. I don’t want pity, I just want to be understood. When people are going through big feelings, I feel like others look at them like they’ve never had big feelings before.

The only thing I knew how to do at the time was “get through it.” Classic woman, right? It is so deeply ingrained in us to keep pushing. And I did. I still am, just in a better mindset and calmer nervous system.

My stress was manifesting physically, first with the ocular migraine in November and then tinnitus in the fall and winter. A couple of times, the sound in my left ear dropped completely and a loud ringing took over for about ten seconds. It was scary. I had myself convinced for a bit that I had a brain tumor. This kind of stuff never happened to me before during postpartum.

My dad set me up with an ENT in January to check my sinuses/ears. Walking into the waiting room, I was easily the youngest person there by thirty years. I told the doctor about the tinnitus and the feeling of fullness in my ear. He examined my sinuses and checked my ears: no inflammation, completely clean. When I asked if postpartum hormonal shifts could affect my ears, he brushed it off, saying he had no idea but “probably not.”

After a hearing test, he came back to tell me I didn’t have hearing loss. Duh, I knew that. My house is so noisy sometimes I wish I couldn’t hear. Then he said, “Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do for tinnitus. It’s probably stress. Maybe when your kids grow up you’ll feel better.”

Cool, bro. Just completely dismiss me.

Later, I did my own research on hormones and the auditory system. It turns out there are estrogen receptors all over your auditory system. When you give birth, your estrogen drops and when you exclusively breastfeed (which I did and 14 months later she is still nursing), your estrogen stays suppressed. That leads me to believe Estrogen definitely plays a role in my tinnitus. Stress played a part, of course, but hormones dictate so much. When it involves women, instead of investigating the “why” or “how,” so many doctors default to, “It’s stress, nothing can be done.”

I still get the ringing from time to time, but it’s easier to ignore now. He could have easily googled it and gave me some kind of information instead of being condescending.

Tinnitus and ocular migraines, welcome to the postpartum party.

I got a new Apple watch for my birthday and the notification I get most often is that my environment is too loud and persistent levels of above 90 decibels will cause permanent hearing damage. So, I’m enjoying being able to hear while I still can, whether it’s noises from the numerous people in my house or ones my head makes up. I’m sure I’ll scream, cry, and apologize to my kids a million more times too. And they’ll think I’m nuts, but overall I do believe they know they are loved and safe. The fog of the postpartum winter months was heavy, but my reflections have taught me that the foundation of joy and love is heavier. The winter months taught me to have faith in our foundation and a lot more faith in myself. Spring was on the horizon and that season always brings with it a fresh perspective.

And, if anyone asks me again “why did you have four?” I’ll just tell them I needed enough people to fill a room when the next baptism super-spreader event comes up.

Stay tuned for 4th Trimester, 4th Time – Spring.