That first night after you were born, I
hardly slept at all.
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I certainly needed the sleep. Up all
night in labor, and then without a wink of sleep all day after, I was
surely exhausted.
And yet.
You were so new. New to yourself, new
to me. I was so happy just to have you here in my arms and out of my
belly that I wanted nothing more than to just hold you for hours and
hours. And that is exactly what I did. I have hazy, sleepy memories
of spending the better part of that night cuddling you to my chest,
watching in wonder as you dreamed baby dreams while nestled upon my
bosom. I drifted off a few times, soothed by the white noise D had
softly playing for you, but for most of that night I was content to
just watch you sleep.
But then the sleep deprivation started
to add up. I struggled to align my own need for sleep with the
simple fact that a newborn baby has a tiny belly which requires
frequent filling. After a few days, I felt like a zombie. An hour
of sleep here, two or three there. I had foolishly thought that
waking frequently to use the bathroom during my last few months of
pregnancy had prepared me somewhat for sleepless nights with a tiny
baby.
Was I ever wrong.
I began to dread waking up to your
hungry sounds, even as I tried desperately to soothe your needs
before you could wake your daddy. I hated having to turn on the
light, but we were both so new at nursing that our joint efforts
couldn't result in a successful latch if I couldn't see what I was
doing. I dreaded having to drag myself out of bed to arrange my
pillows and seat you in my lap. (We hadn't yet discovered the joys
of co-sleeping, and even if we had, we were nowhere close to any
success with side-lying nursing.)
No matter how many naps I took during
the day, with earplugs to ensure I didn't wake at your every noise
while your Gamma took care of you, I was still simply exhausted. I
was used to more sleep than this. I rejoiced every time you slept
for more than a few hours straight, but most of the time your
“schedule” was like clockwork. If I checked the time after you
finished nursing, you would inevitably be awake again in precisely
two hours.
Worse yet were the nights when my
supply was inadequate, as my body struggled to figure out exactly how
much you needed. I remember feeling something very near to despair
one night when you went from one side to the other, back and forth
for a few hours straight. Would this ever end? Were you getting
enough? It wasn't depression, because I know what that feels like.
But sometimes extreme sleep deprivation can feel very similar.
And what was that about nursing not
being painful? As this most sensitive part of my body adjusted to a
use it had always been intended for but never actually known before,
I was in agony. Every latch was torture, and at times I had to grit
my teeth through the duration of a nursing session, reminding myself
that I was nourishing you and that it would get easier. That's what
everyone told me anyway. It will get easier. I knew your latch was
good, the doctors said you weren't tongue-tied; I just needed to get
used to it, to toughen up.
But I pressed on. It never occurred to
me to stop, to try something else. This was best for you, and if it
was providing you with what you needed, then I would keep on keeping
on. But oh, how it hurt sometimes.
And yet.
Somewhere along the way, without me
even noticing, I stopped dreading those nighttime nursing sessions.
Somewhere along the way, my body
adjusted itself to your sleep schedule. I found that so long as I
got a cumulative six hours or more of sleep, I could function during
the day. I was tired still, but I no longer felt like a zombie.
Somewhere along the way, the pain
subsided. It faded to discomfort while you nursed. Then it was just
discomfort as you latched on. Somehow, without me even really
noticing, it stopped feeling bad at all.
And now, now that you sleep for longer
stretches at night and only (usually) wake a few times to nurse, now
that you've developed a real schedule of sorts, now that I've figured
out that I need to just go to bed when you do even if it's at 7 or 8
at night, now I treasure these quiet moments together.
I love the sleepy hungry sounds you
make, and I love knowing that I can (usually) wake up before you do.
I love that, given the opportunity, you'll nurse without waking up at
all. I love being able to feed you, knowing that you'll stop once
sated and contentedly roll onto your back and sleep the rest of the
night through.
I love the feeling of your silky hair
on my arm, as I curl myself around you at night. I love the gentle
sounds of your sleeping breath, somehow so different from your waking
breath. I love how after every time you nurse, I back away a little
to ensure that you have adequate breathing space and, without fail,
you will have scooted right back next to me by the time I next
awaken.
I love how, even in sleep, your little
hands seek out something to hold onto. I love that I can offer you
my hand, and your little fingers will gently curl around it, further
anchoring you to the safety and security that you find in me.
I love the way you smell, milky and
sweet and wholly you.
I love everything about you. And no
matter how hard it was at first, I know I wouldn't change any of it.
Like the pain of labor, the difficulty of those first few weeks pales
in comparison to the pure joy I feel now.
