I have no idea what to write about. But here I am, as E used to say when we were helping motivate each other to finish our dissertations, using 45 min. work sessions and a Zen bell application: writing leads to motivation, not the other way around.
It is the 8-10am morning shift, Baby A is bouncing to dreamland in her hammock. She's 4 months old, and honestly, not much has changed with her pains and cries and discomfort. She continues to gain weight and is developing quickly (M got her first laugh out of her a few days ago!), which according to the pediatrician means she's healthy. Great, never mind the gas pains, problems pooping, reflux sounds, trouble getting to sleep and inability to stay asleep more than 1 or 2 hours at a time, and having to breastfeed her in her sleep.
There are many times when I've been maintaining weight and developmental stage and don't feel healthy. Back pain - that's a big one.
Anyway, the doctor is actually great, and at the last visit, after the reflux medication didn't do anything, she sent a prescription for us (me and the pistachio) to go to the Children's Hospital sleep lab for a multi-day evaluation. We're just waiting to hear about that appointment. There are sleep specialists there, GI specialists, and who knows what other specialists. Maybe finally we can treat A as a whole being rather than as a skeletal/muscle system (osteopath), a feeder (lactation consultant), a weight and height (pediatrician).
All around this 12 lb. whirling dervish, life goes on. Heartless bastard. People sleep, work, play, eat. Spring has come with its gorgeous sunlight and crocuses. Other babies A's age are sleeping even longer at night. Their parents go out, to restaurants or bars, or take them to foreign countries. The go back to work part time or full time. And it feels like I've (we've) gotten left behind somehow.
Yes, I know, every baby is different. And I consider myself pretty good at being happy with others at their accomplishments and good fortunes. But it is hard to see another 4 month old just fall asleep in her mother's (or anyone's) lap and not feel a bit jealous. Of the extra time that represents, of what I imagine are looser shoulder muscles and greater ease of falling asleep of that mother. Of lungs that expand that last bit where mine feel like they stop at a tight chest, always ready to spring awake to comfort A. To bounce her, to hold her, to put her in the sling and go on another walk through the neighborhood.
I love her. In my own way. But I'm so tired. And I so very much wish I wasn't. That I had more stores of energy especially for when she is having the hardest time. That I didn't wish she would "just stop it!" as if she does any of this on purpose. I get angry at her. At her body. At this state we seem to be frozen in.
And all that "oh but when she smiles, you remember what it is all about" stuff? You know what, sometimes, when she smiles in the middle of a screaming session, I don't remember. I don't soften up inside. I'm still upset. And that makes me sad. I feel like she could have gotten a better mom. One of those who can melt every time they see a smile. Who can get 1 or 2 hours of sleep all night long and be loving and calm when the baby wakes up for the 6th time, after only 30 minutes this time, screaming.
But I'm not those mothers. I'm me. I do my best, and it feels far short of good. But it is all I've got at this point.
So in the middle of the happiness of her new laughing or cooing, or grabbing or rolling over, there are these sad little pockets of time. When I can't even muster a "this too shall pass" anymore. Shall pass was 3 months, 4 at the most.
"This too shall pass" has passed. Bow to your sensei, I guess.
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