I have no idea how Mom's keep journals, baby books, photo books, or even little notes about the early days and events of their babies lives. Aside from what makes it to Facebook, there is less and less likely to be a "Keller Book". Let alone a second child, third child or beyond baby book! It is highly likely my future children might only have record of their birth thanks to the certificate we receive proving it happened, because I can barely make notes about ONE kid! And yet, at the end of the day, I do still want more... Proof I'm crazy.
I'd love to post about life with Keller that first month. And this second one. I have a draft dedicated to what a wonderful father Tom is and how I would not survive this new process without him. I've been meaning to chronicle Keller's first love affair with the toy Dragonfly who hangs from his baby swing. It's my favorite memory and story thus far. For the record, there are so many happy things to share! I'll get them out, at some point. For today, there is mostly just misery and, for the first time, guilt. Mommy Guilt punched me in the gut this morning, bright and early, at 5 A.M.
Week seven of Motherhood and newborn life has been rough. Since I haven't been married seven years yet to know what that "itch" is like, I am dubbing this the seven week itch for normalcy. Prior to this week, things have been pretty smooth and sleep has been prominently in existence. Then, week seven came along and Keller started napping for only forty minutes at a time, on the dot, making the days long and crabby and hard on both of us. In the stroller it's worse and he'll only go for twenty six minutes. Thankfully, his night time sleep remained consistent, and I was still able to move forward with preparations for sleep training by getting his feedings on a consistent four hour schedule. But the day times of fussing and needing to be held constantly when not asleep (for those forty minuscule minutes when I was rushing to feed myself and maybe shower) and having a hundred one way conversations, and not interacting with a single adult until seven o'clock at night, have been tough to say the least. I managed to find and join a New Moms Group, which helped tremendously with my stir-crazy-ness, but socializing isn't a viable solution for this killer schedule Keller has come up with. And THEN, Keller's night times started going wonky. So help me.
The sleep books talk about how these are the weeks where babies will start going to bed earlier (check!) and stretch their sleep times longer, of their own accord. Keller has done five to six hour stretches on various nights since he was four weeks old, so I was very much looking forward to, and planning on, the consistency and increased length of night time sleep for us both. Fellow Mom-friends a week or so ahead of us had just started getting this, so I thought we would be there soon too. And then, Keller suddenly got gassy and uncomfortable, which is also typical at this age, and things changed at night too. He'd go down fine, and everything would seem normal and promising, but after his first feed he'd be up a couple hours later (well before the next feed time and not hungry or interested in boobfood). The grunting, crying, twitching, and uncomfortable leg kicks were obvious signs that he was struggling internally. So I would spend the next forty five minutes to an hour consoling, pacifying, medicating, holding, shushing, changing, patting, bicycling, and pleading for relief and sleep. The discomfort would finally pass, and he would go right back down like he usually does. But then, of course, in an hour it would be time to eat again. And two hours after that it would be time to be uncomfortable again. And so the cycle repeats until 8 A.M., when our day starts, and I am
beat.
Last night was one of those nights where I saw more of my sweet baby than I wanted, after seeing plenty of my sweet baby all day long (although I did get in some legit human interaction, which helped). We were up and down repeating the gassy-dance, and I was cursing my over-supply of milk, anything wrong I may have eaten, digestive systems, intestines, ineffective gas drops, and anything else that could possibly be blamed for why I was up at such ungodly hours more than I wanted or was "supposed" to be.
At 5 A.M. I heard the grunt and sigh. The swish of swaddled little legs moving up and down. More grunting. I plopped in the pacifier. Suck...suck...silence. Stillness. I closed my eyes. Grunt. Swish. Grunt. Plop of pacifier out of the mouth. Whine. Sigh. Put pacifier back in. Eyes closed. Suck...Suck...silence. Plop of pacifier out of the mouth. Painful scream. Lip pout. Scrunched face. Twisting body. WAILING. And we're up.
And that's when I snapped. As I began un-swaddling and preparing to comfort this sweet, innocent little boy of mine, my eyes were burning with the desire to be shut, my nerves were on edge and my patience was still trying to muster itself and crawl out of bed to join me. And then I said, "Oh, just SHUT UP already!".
I instantly regretted it while my husband's head shot up off the pillow in horror and protective instinct. A rush of regret, sorrow, pain, and guilt, so much guilt, came over me. Never in my adult life have I said anything deliberately mean or harsh to a child. Never in my career. Never as a mother. Until today. It only took seven short weeks for me to achieve my first regret as a Mother. I was horrified. Of course there are worse things to say or do. Of course there will be many times I say or do something worse. But this was the first, and man did it sting.
My kid was still screaming, and my husband was probably reconsidering all the compliments of "best Mom ever" he so generously gives. The uttered words hung in the air like the thick stank of foul garbage when it smells so bad you can taste it. I could taste my nasty sentence, and how much I had meant it. I wished I could throw it out, but it had already been said and was hovering in its stink cloud. The reality was, my kid was still in pain and now was not the time to feel sorry for myself. But I did feel sorry. Oh so sorry. Not for myself, but for what I had said. For my uncomfortable baby and the wits-ended-mean-mouthed-Mama he had to deal with.
After I gingerly changed his diaper, and bicycled those chubby legs, I lifted my whimpering boy and gave him a big snuggle. I whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry I said 'shut up'. I love you." And then he farted. For reals. And I couldn't help but feel great pride and relief, and even farted forgiveness.
I hope, and am pretty sure, his memory isn't developed enough to remember any of this, but I will. I will remember this day. This morning. I will remember what I said, when I said it, why I said it. But mostly I will remember the guilt. The weight of the feelings of total failure, utter regret, and deep sorrow that I have never ever felt to this magnitude before. The absolute Mom-Guilt. Even if it's a milestone of motherhood that comes around to us all, it was still one I had hoped to escape a little while longer.
Amazingly, this day does have a better ending than beginning. The happiest plot twist is that, at the point of despair, I did figure out how to soothe and console my child so we could both thrive and survive today. It took a bouncy seat in his crib and a special gas relieving device up his butt, but I figured it out! And he took a two hour nap. And we are both better rested for it. For now, at least.
1 comment:
Sarah, thank you for being so completely real. I love you, and you're an EXCELLENT mother.
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