The whimpering coming from the little white monitor on my nightstand sets off a slow awakening, like the sunrise, only less blissful. Slowly, persistently, the sound escalates to a regular outburst, a staccato cry. The monitor’s lights no longer flash calm green, they are now alarm red. Alright, alright, I’m coming.
I fumble for my glasses and switch off the monitor, kill the red light, kill the noise. Quick glance at the clock. Red numbers read 2 a.m. Why so much red? Through the fog of sleep I do a quick mental calculation. 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. = four hours. Good enough, I suppose. This is the 78th straight day I’ve gotten less than eight consecutive hours of sleep. Five would have been nice, but no time to ponder this now; the cries are getting louder.
Bare feet hit a creaky wood floor and I’m on the move, shuffling towards my robe to keep the middle of the night chill off of my bare shoulders. Once in the nursery I flip on the light’s dimmest setting, enough to see what I’m doing but still low enough so as not to give baby any ideas. This is just a quick refill, not an intro to playtime. I pull his warm body from beneath the blankets and onto my shoulder. Despite his hunger he’s nearly as drowsy as me. He buries his head into the soft spot where my shoulder meets my collarbone while flapping an arm about to let me know it’s time to feed him, and I better do it quick.
We settle into the rocker. How many times have we sunk down into this chair in the past 78 days? Up, down, back, forth. We settle, he latches, and I close my eyes while he eats. Sometimes I fall into a light sleep. Sometimes I think about the day we just had, marvel at his latest development. Sometimes I think about what we’ll do tomorrow, which is now today. And sometimes I gaze down at him and wonder what he’ll look like, be like in five years, ten years, more. I wonder if some part of him, down deep in his subconscious, will remember how we were once nearly inseparable. How I was there for his every need, all day and all night. Especially all night. How he snuggled against me, belly to belly, while I stroked his fine baby hair and watched him get every bit of nourishment he needed from me.
When he’s done we do the housekeeping tasks—burping, diaper change—that every middle of the night feeding requires. Sometimes, right before I return his tiny body to his crib, as he begins the dozy slide back to sleep, a slow smile spreads across his mouth. Content, secure, nourished. Thankful?
I’m so glad I got up at 2 a.m.
Tags: motherhood
This is beautiful.
Have I told you lately how much I love you? Great post honey!
Sarah – how very beautiful. You are bringing me back to that amazing time (though good news: it stays amazing but perhaps not as intimate). I think of you often and am so happy for you that you’ll be spending your time with your baby. I can’t remember if I told you to read: Raising Cain and especially, The Wonder of Boys (but you can wait until you are actually sleeping through the night to do so). Wishing you all the best. Don’t know what suddenly made me remember your blog, but I’m glad I did.
Nicely done. Love this.