They Don't Tell You This in the Books |
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| Single Parents |
| Written by Stephanie McCown |
| Friday, 02 October 2009 13:07 |
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I had not taken my eyes off him for three days. While in the hospital, I hardly slept because I could not stop looking at him. He had a beauty that took my breath away. I held him, still unable to quite believe that this precious child had been growing in my womb the last forty weeks. I held his tiny hand, and imagined what our days together would be like. I was a mother now, and I still had not wrapped my mind around that. The child in my arms had been given to me, of all people. As I watched my son and gradually became lost in my dreams, he began to stir. Then, the serene beauty of his face contorted into something neither serene nor beautiful. His mouth opened, and his peaceful slumber ended with a plaintive cry. When I was in the hospital, I felt prepared to bring my son home. I believed I had read enough books, heard enough advice, and been around enough babies that surely caring for my own baby would not be a problem. I was a pro with babies, and it was my time to shine. Oh, how I did shine. Sweat and oil glistened on my brow as 9:00 seamlessly drifted into midnight, and then 2 a.m. My darling boy had not slept for longer than fifteen consecutive minutes. I had attempted to feed him, changed his diaper, swaddled him, put him in his bassinette, took him out of his bassinette, did the “bounce and sway”, and anything else I could think of to soothe him back into sleep. My throat hurt from my incessant humming and singing and sweet-talking, all to no avail. My body was still recovering from the travails of labor, and walking my son back and forth in our tiny apartment was pushing me beyond my limits of endurance. I wanted to take a painkiller and sit down, for heaven’s sake, but that was not an option. Holding my babe, I hummed, talked, and paced, but my son was not going to sleep. Instead of sleeping, he was crying. Relentlessly. I knew perfectly well why. He was crying because he was tired and hungry. While we were in the hospital, he would breastfeed like a champ, impressing the nurses and making his momma proud. Now, in our own home, he had declared a feeding strike. No matter what method I tried, I could not make him latch on. His cries of hunger and frustration were in no way mitigated by his growing exhaustion. As the night wore on and I ran out of methods, I decided to pull out all the stops and do the thing I did not want to do. At 4 a.m., I called my mother. My mother came over immediately, and took my crying son from my arms. I must have looked so desperately tired as I explained to her that I had done everything I knew to do, and he wasn’t going to sleep, he wouldn’t eat, and I was so tired, and all I wanted was just fifteen minutes so I could sleep. She asked me if I had tried swaddling him, and I hissed that I had tried that and every other method I knew of, and he just wouldn’t sleep. She swaddled him, and he slept in her arms, ever so peacefully. I settled into my bed, readily falling asleep. I knew my baby was in good hands, and I hoped to get at least a couple hours of rest. Twenty minutes later, I heard my sweet child crying, and then screaming, with exhausted frustration. I got out of bed, resuming my post as Ineffectual Baby -Soother. For the rest of the morning, we played this game. It was as though we were both exhausted, but unwilling to be the first to give in to sleep. My son’s WIC nurse came over around 10:00. I greeted her with my robe wide open, wearing only underwear, having just attempted to soothe my son with some skin-to-skin contact. I was too exhausted to care about being modest. My half-naked body smelled of sweat and tears, wearing residue from the long night, and I did not care. My only concern when she walked in was whether or not she could help me get him fed, and then down for a long nap. Mercifully, she was able to help me, and my son finally fell asleep with a full belly. I would like to say that my son and I were able to settle down for a long cuddle, but we were not so fortunate. There were appointments to be kept, and we had to pack up and go despite our horrendously long night. No advice given could have prepared me for that night. Eight months later, my son and I know each other well, and I have little trouble getting him to sleep for the night. Still, when I recall that first night home, I can easily conjure the frustration and feelings of helplessness I experienced. That night, and many days and nights since, have taught me that I must keep an open mind. My child is unique and situations will arise that are not covered in the books. Motherhood has taught me to maintain a certain flexibility for life. More often than not, we won’t be able to see what’s around the bend, and a level of dexterity is required if we’re to master this journey.
Author Bio: I am a single mom with one child, my 9 month old baby boy, Jaden. I am blessed to be able to stay home with him, and while we haven't pulled an all-nighter in several months, I am finding that my son has many other brilliantly creative ways to use up all of my energy. I wouldn't trade it for anything!
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I had given birth to my beautiful baby three days earlier, and we were now home in our quiet little apartment. No more interruptions from nurses, no more beeping or blipping medical equipment, no more visitors. Finally, it was just the two of us. It was 9:00 on that first night, and my sweet babe yawned and stretched, happily snuggling into my arms as he drifted off to sleep.
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