Early Morning Musings

I can’t do this again. Tears quietly fall from my eyes as I look at the clock, 2:45 a.m. This is the second time I’ve woken up tonight, which wouldn’t be so bad if all my nights for the last three weeks hadn’t been like this. One bad night’s sleep, inconvenient. Four bad nights, borderline insanity. Three weeks of running on the minimum sleep required for a human is never something I thought I could do, but here I am doing it. I sit up in bed and feel my way around until I reach the bassinet. As soon as I reach Vittoria her cries soften as she nuzzles next to my body. We move to her nursery, careful not to wake my husband while I mentally add this to the list of reasons I have “mom rage” now. 

“Shhhh….it’s okay, mommy’s here”, I whisper to Vittoria as we sit in the rocker. I flick on the light and get us both ready for her to eat. Tears that once fell from exhaustion now fall from the discomfort that comes with having a baby latched onto you. 

“There you go, you got it baby”. She settles in for her second dinner, or first breakfast? The lines between day and night are now blurred for the both of us. As we sit together in silence I find ways to keep myself from sleeping. Unfortunately counting the flowers on her drapes, making a mental list for the grocery store, and trying to make up a story in my head to tell her all prove to be sleep-inducing activities. I squeeze my eyes shut and stretch them open in attempts to stay awake. I look down at her, and that’s when I notice it. Her tiny hand resting right on my chest. Has it always been this little? I try to remember her yesterday but that already feels like a lifetime ago. 

My days are not my days anymore, so I don’t remember much. My days are her days. Her sleep schedule, her feeding schedule, her diaper changes, her newborn appointments, all-consuming, all-exciting, all-nerve wracking. In the silence of those early morning hours though, we can really take time to notice each other. It feels like we are the only two people awake in the world, and with nothing else to distract us, we are on our own mommy-daughter date.

Romanticizing the night helps combat the anxiety that’s now become my normal. Everyone warns you of the emotions you’ll feel when you give birth, but no one told me how I’d feel all of them simultaneously. Guilt, anxiety, fear, sadness, and joy blend together to create the perfect postpartum cocktail of emotions. 

“You’re so strong.”

“You’re doing such a great job.”

“You’re such a good mommy.”

Tears fall again as I think about what I’ve heard from so many these last few weeks. I don’t even recognize myself, how can I be good at anything? Is it actually me doing these things? I can’t be good at being a mom when I count the minutes until I can have a break. I should be loving every second, right? Vittoria and I are at the changing table as I zip up her sleep sack. She starts to fuss, either uncomfortable from the milk or sleepy again. I’m still learning her cries. I pick her up, turn out the lights, and start to sing as we sway back and forth together. 

“The smile on your face lets me know that you need me….” When You Say Nothing At All pours out of me, one word at a time and I laugh. She really can’t say anything at all, or smile yet for that matter, but she starts to relax.

It’s 3:20 a.m. Vittoria and I are slow dancing in her room. Even though she doesn’t sleep here yet, it’s been ready for her for months. That’s how I feel about motherhood. Even though I haven’t felt successful yet, I’ve been preparing for months. I try not to let the sadness consume me at the feelings of inadequacy, and focus on the ‘yet’. I’ll get there, we’ll get there together. 

One day I’ll look back at the late nights and early mornings, the ‘sundown scaries’, the never-ending diaper changes, and remember how we learned together. Vittoria is a new human, every time she breathes she’s learning something new. Even though I’m not a new human, I’m a new mom also learning something new each minute of the day. I take a deep breath in the dark, warm room and ground myself: I smell my baby, I feel her body in my arms, I see the outline of this new nursery, and I hear her gentle breaths before they turn into baby grunts in her sleep. 

Serenity washes over me. She’s okay, I’m okay, we’re okay. My husband comes in to check on us. He kisses my head and leads me back to our room. I gently place Vittoria in her bassinet, relieved she stayed asleep during the transfer. I can do this, I am good at this. I climb back into bed, feeling more optimistic than I did when I woke up an hour ago. 

My husband hands me my water bottle, anticipating how thirsty I would be before I even noticed I was thirsty. I lay my head down on the pillow and he rubs my back as I start to relax myself. I know that Vittoria will wake up in another hour or so, but I know that the sun will soon be rising with us. 

Even with moments of gray the truth is my heart has been forever changed: warm all the time, and constantly close to exploding. It was a feeling that I did not know I could feel, and as if I wasn’t impressed enough by what my body can do, I’m impressed by how intensely humans can feel. As I welcome much-needed sleep, I think to myself: 

How lucky am I to wake up and do this again.