It’s been almost four months since I’ve had Woori.

Many people, after reading my essay for Christianity Today on transitioning from a working mother to a stay-at-home mother, have asked me how I’m doing now that I’ve crossed that transition.

I reply, “Don’t know. Ask me in a few more months.”

It’s a hard question to answer because honestly, I’m rarely thinking about how I feel. I’m just clucking about like a crazy hen, pecking at this, chasing chicks, fluttering and puttering and scuttling. My eyes only see what’s right before me in the dirt, at hen-height. The day passes by so fast I can barely tell a Wednesday from a Saturday. I could have sworn I just folded a pile of laundry, and behold, here’s a mountain of laundry waiting to be folded again!

So I haven’t really had the chance to sit down and process my thoughts and feelings, but it really isn’t just about lack of time, either.

I’ve gotten dumb. I’ve gotten really, really dumb. When I expelled all my postpartum blood, I seem to also have flushed out most of my IQ. I forget friends’ names. I forget to respond to texts. I forget where I placed an item right after I’ve placed it. I lose my phone all the time. I can’t finish a thought. Words don’t come to me as I’m speaking, so my sentences are jumbled and chopped. When David wants to talk to me about news and politics, I have absolutely no mental or emotional capacity to respond other than to mutter, “Oh yeah?”

So yeah. How do I feel about being a stay-at-home mother? Maybe the most accurate description is: Dumb AF.

But it’s also confusing. Because in those moments when I am more aware of my thoughts and feelings, they don’t make coherent sense.

At times, as I hold Woori and feel her warm little head resting on my shoulder, or kiss Tov as he giggles with such wild joy, I feel such deep contentment, like my life is perfect the way it is. And then other times, I’m deeply discontent, and the smallest thing annoys me— the permanent clutter, the hands constantly grabbing at me, the noises, the very breathing of my husband. (Is it too much to ask our spouses to stop breathing for just half an hour?)

At times, I’m simply so filled with gratitude for the blessings God has given me that tears spring to my eyes, and I want to leap and sing like Maria in Sound of Music. Other times, I’m in inexplicable rage mode, wanting to kick walls, throw things, scream.

At times, I love the familiar, comforting drudgery of motherhood— feel relieved, even, that I don’t have to go back to work. Other times, I feel pinches of panic and anxiety— is this it? Am I stuck in this merry-go-round of domestic hell? Dropping kids off, picking them up, cooking and cleaning, wiping butts and wringing your explodes mustard-colored poop off onesies? What if I never make something of myself? Am I ever going to write a book?

At times, I tear up seeing how big Tov is now, and how quickly Woori is growing, and whisper to them, “Oh, stop growing so fast,” and I wish I can freeze time and capture them tiny forever in a snow globe. Other times, I’m impatient for the next stage, impatient for them to be more independent and self-sufficient, so I don’t have to help dress them or bathe them and I can have my life back again.

That’s the paradox of parenthood: I feel the extremes of both ends on the emotional spectrum, often within the same day. I’m standing pulled and stretched in that tension of contradictory feelings, which spike and dip wildly like a monsoon season. And from what I’m hearing from other parents, everything I’m feeling is normal. Laughing with joy one minute and then internally screaming with frustration the next? Quite normal. Wait till your kids are teenagers, they say.

So. At four months postpartum, how do I feel? Like a mother, I suppose.