Saturday night I lay on the floor, toys carefully, deliberately strewn around me. I knew I couldn’t sleep, but I’d welcome any form of rest at that point. I envisioned my husband coming downstairs, rested, in the morning to find me exactly as I was on the floor, but with a worn-out baby using me as a pillow. It made me smile to picture what I hoped would come.
The baby, of course, had other plans. He was happy to have me all to himself, he was happy to have the toys all to himself. He alternated between playing with the toys and pulling out my hair. That’s fine. Bald is beautiful. Hair will regrow but I can never regain the sleep I’ve lost.
When I sat up to give my poor scalp a break I saw the proud buddha pat his belly and smile delightedly at me.
At 2am I finally gave in and moved to the kitchen. I needed more strength. I began with some cupcakes lefter over from the birthday party. The icing had melted so I had a second one to ensure my remorse in the morning. With my veggies and dip I camped out on the tile to watch him play with his reflection in the oven door. Finally I opened the Cheetos. There was a party in my tummy, and Cheetos, yes those MSG-laden chemical sticks, were invited.
It was then that he decided to give in to the prolactin. I nursed him and put him to bed and sleepily brushed my teeth. We napped for 45 minutes before he was up and ready for more. He was still warm from his fever, and still clearly feeling crummy, so I couldn’t just make him cry it out and go back to sleep. We didn’t really sleep until 4:30, and his brother was up within two and a half hours.
My neighbour, Angela, is two weeks into motherhood. She’s mentionned several times that she doesn’t know how I survive without coffee. I just smile when she says this. I have my own vices.