It's been a long day of being a slave to a three-week old. This is nothing new for me, it's my third time, but my brain refuses to go back four years ago, seven years ago, and I feel no more prepared for this than someone going through it for the first time. The fact that I've parented two children already does nothing to ease my mind or boost my confidence- if anything, it compounds the frustration. Why am I not better at this? Why isn't this easier? Why am I overwhelmed by this tiny little person?
My days are easily categorized into two outlooks: I am either enraptured or despondent. The majority of the time, I float around rhapsodically, doting on the baby, my husband, the kids, and the clean house. When things are going well, the bliss I feel is nothing short of euphoria. As soon as that starts to slightly shift, though, I snap. A crying baby presents such a schism to my perfect world that if I can't quickly regain harmony, I'll break down. My mind doesn't want to accept that my baby is anything less than an angel. She can't possibly be cranky- I must be doing something wrong. The fact that she's so freak-of-nature mellow 90% of the time makes the other 10% absolutely unbearable for me, when in reality, I should be thanking my lucky stars that I have it so easy.
Today was a hard day, harder than most, and every minute that passes in silence is like a little gift wrapped up and hand-delivered by an angel. My peace is contingent on the baby's peace, and seeing her lay still and satiated, her long eyelashes resting shut on plump pink cheeks, I can feel the frustration drain and the euphoria wash over me once again.
Something you're never prepared for enough as a mother is how viscerally you will react to every emotion your baby expresses. When your child is happy, it is nearly impossible to be anything but. An unhappy baby makes you want to hurl yourself out the window. These tiny little screaming people, weighing less than a bowling ball, are much worse than your cranky boss, the bully on the playground, that girl who stole your boyfriend in high school, or any petty argument you've had with your spouse. It's like your mother, saying, "I'm not mad, I'm just really disappointed in you." Only she's screaming it. In your ear. For five straight hours. And as much as you'd love to walk around with them some more, your body really isn't being cooperative since it's still mad about the severe trauma it went through to get that baby here in the first place.
So it's almost 10, the baby is finally asleep for the first time all day, and here I am. What you can't see is the bottle of beer and huge stack of candy in front of me. The house is finally silent except for the rattle of the washing machine (baby spit up on the sheets) and the hum of the dryer (baby poop on my favorite blanket). After being on the brink of a meltdown all day, I don't think I'm going to empty the dishwasher, or fold the laundry, or pay the bills. I am just going to sit, greedily, in silence, and just finally relax.
Or not.
Hubby just called to say he was on his way home, and the phone woke the baby, who is now half-grunting, half-crying, and wholly making me want to grunt and cry as well.
...back to the drawing board...
