The Stars And I

I used to like nighttime.

The way the colours of a sunset danced their way to dusk, the slow transition to twilight, and the final glow that pervaded the air before everything turned to darkness.

Dave and I used to stargaze together through a big telescope I'd gifted to him for his 30th birthday. After dinner, we'd turn out all the lights in our house, head into the backyard and set it up in the middle of the lawn. And just like that, with one peer through the eyepiece, our perspective could be shifted, our thoughts taken to a place of immensity and possibility.

Not much needed to be said. It was like we both knew the wonder of the night sky would eclipse any trivial words muttered between us. With a glass of wine in one hand and the long lens of the telescope steadied in the other, I'd revel in the tranquillity and humility the far-off views evoked. After both having a look at the stars and the moon, we'd hold hands and just look up, in love, in silence.

Things were easy back then. Carefree. Calm. We had more time. Time to spend together. Time to explore other interests. 

These days, as evening approached, I grew anxious, wondering whether the night ahead would be hard or...really hard. I'd come to accept, even expect that I'd be getting minimal sleep. Our baby boy usually woke five times during the night, sometimes hourly. It was no longer a question of if he'd wake, but when, how many times and for how long.

After a few months, we knew something wasn't right. There is typical newborn wakefulness, then there was this. Two doctors, three pediatricians, an immunologist, and six months later, we learned he had reflux, multiple allergies, and was what they call a 'distressed sleeper'. "Hang in there," they all said. "He'll grow out of it eventually." I couldn't help but wonder what else might change in that time.

I'd usually resist the urge to go to bed for as long as I could in that first part of the night, reasoning that, at least then, the first wake-up wouldn't be so disorienting. Of course, it was illogical; sleep was sleep, and I needed as much as I could get. I suppose I was clutching for some control over the situation, no matter how small or self-sabotaging. 

Eventually, though, my weary brain and body would surrender to much-needed rest. Then, like a knife through butter, a scream would slice through my dreams. I'd wake to his crying and see he'd vomited some milk. And so began the nighttime process: I'd scoop him up, wipe him down, change his suit, replace the bassinet sheet, breastfeed him again.

His vulnerable little blue eyes pleaded with me to alleviate his discomfort. I'd do everything I could to comfort him. Nursing, bouncing, patting. Nothing pacified his red-faced screaming and writhing. He was surprisingly strong; his arched back and flailing limbs turned things into a physical grapple, just as much as a mental one. 

Time would drag on until I was too tired to even muster the energy to feel defeated. I'd give up hope of sleep and shift into an apathetic state, rocking side to side, while I cradled him in my arms. Sometimes, I think it was to comfort me just as much as him. Occasionally, I'd look down to find he'd fallen asleep and wonder how long he'd been that way. I'd curse myself for not having noticed sooner and missing out on precious minutes of sleep. 

Dave's absence in the bed was palpable. With so many frequent disruptions, we'd decided he was better off in the spare room. He needed to get some sleep to survive full days of high-concentration work. At first, I felt jealous, the envy percolating inside of me while I sat up, alone and half-naked, nourishing our child. But my love and respect for him, both as a husband and a dad, superseded any bedtime begrudment. Instead, I just felt sad. I'd look over to his side of the bed and long to feel the safety and reassurance of his presence. Tears would well then overflow and slide down my cheeks as I mourned the loss of our adventurous younger days and our togetherness. 

With a settled baby finally back in the cot, I'd look down at my watch, desperately willing the hands to move faster so the night would be over soon. Things didn't feel so dire once I was up and about, in the sunshine and interacting with others. I'd have my usual cold shower and set off for the nearby cafe with him in the pram. The lure of coffee - its warmth and stimulant effects - helped me to shuffle one foot in front of the other.

More often than not, an older stranger would stop us on the way, to admire the baby and make idle chit-chat. "Enjoy these early days," they'd say. "They fly by!" I'd smile politely, wish them a nice day, and continue on hoping deep down there was truth to their words. Ashamed at the thought, I'd overcompensate the next time I picked him up, smothering him with soft kisses and silent apologies.

Our telescope now sits in the office. It's been demoted to a dusty corner, next to old books and internet cords, while baby furniture and noisy toys dominate the main rooms of the house.

Sometimes in the evenings, between the baby tasks, while Dave is busy bathing him or feeding him dinner, I slip out the back and look up at the sky. I still feel a connection with the stars. It's not as mystical as before, but it's still moving.

I think about them and what they really are. I consider how much energy they are constantly releasing. Everyone marvels at stars and their brightness as they radiate beautifully and brightly into space. But the reason is they are literally burning at their core. 

What we can see of them from here is just a remnant of what they once were. Stars put on a shiny show, but in actuality, they are a distant mass of depleted, degenerating matter.

I smile knowingly at the sky. We're good at fooling others, the stars and I.