Sleep Comes Like a Drug in God's Country

I wish to extol the virtues of sleep, the golden drug.

Linking worlds, sleep brings visions and ecstasies. Through the miracle of sleep we close our eyes and open them somewhere else, at least in the hidden eye of the mind. Symbol and myth steep our very essence and become revealed in sleep. Perhaps it matters not that the stories shown in dreams usually don't make it into the waking state; they are no less active for that, they still re-write the cartography of our souls.

Yet as a new parent, it is not dreams I seek in my sleep, nor revelations. I merely desire, with every fiber of my being, to sleep for more than an hour at a stretch. I only want to sink into my bed and arise refreshed to meet the frantic demands of my two-week-old daughter. My pillow has become my fantasy. My body and my soul yearn for rest.

And last night my sweet, cranky daughter granted me the gift of sleep. I am immensely grateful and find myself rejuvenated, able to face a writing project I've been dreading, and even pondering cooking something for dinner beyond hotdogs or pizza. The constant feedings demanded by little E.'s growth spurt seem less overwhelming, laundry is not insurmountable, and a bath a distinct possibility.

I never appreciated sleep before now. I think my appreciation shall continue to grow as I tread the path of parenthood. I know there will be many more sleepless nights, but right now I'm simply thankful for one good night of rest.

Thanks, E.!

Today I'm Thankful for... Moby Wrap!

Today I packed my husband's lunch with both hands! This may not sound like much, but when you consider that baby E. was sleeping in milky perfection on my chest the whole time, the event tips over into miracle land. This experience courtesy of the Moby Wrap.

For those of you who haven't had the chance to try one, the Moby is a 12-foot long strip of tough elastic material which, when wrapped and tied correctly, allows for babywearing the intimacy of which recalls swaddling, or baby's time in the womb. My little one subsides into slumber whenever I slip her into the triple folds of fabric and rest her cheek on my neck.

Today I'm making bread. Two-handed!

Parental Ferocity

bathtime

I've always perceived myself as a rather laid-back person. Traffic doesn't bother me much, I like experimenting with food, and I'm not a neatnik. While I like being on time, I'm not obsessed with deadlines, and I try to let the people around me be themselves without pressure.

Laying aside the fact that this self-perception may just be erroneous, no one could be more surprised than I at the tide of parental ferocity which has arisen in me since my daughter was born!

Her first bath was administered by a nurse who had been working in pediatrics since the 70's and had a suitably casual approach. As my daughter squirmed and moaned under the warmer, this woman scrubbed mercilessly at the buildup of birth, informed us that babies don't like their backs touched and proceeded to rub our baby's, and actually combed my baby's hair into a kewpie curl! Though dazed from birth and unable to stand long enough to get dressed, I considered leaping from my bed and throttling the woman. (I must add that my opinion of her modulated to complete gratefulness as she proved herself remarkably thoughtful to all of us over the course of the day... some angels come in abrasive packages.)

We've endeavored to keep our little girl sequestered from the germs of the world for the past two weeks in what now seems a doomed attempt to let her immune system begin its work without interference. Only the grandparents have had the privilege of holding her small bulk, kissing her perfect face, and laughing over the impossible facial expressions with which she gifts the world.

Finally allowing some treasured family to come to visit yesterday, we ascertained that everyone was health, had been healthy, and showed no signs of declining health. The visit was wonderful.

And last night they all came down with the flu.

Turns out they had spent some time over the weekend with some friends who had been battling the stomach bug, and these friends neglected to mention that fact.

May I say, I'm livid? We won't know for a few days if our two-week-old infant will succumb to the germs, so while we live in suspense let me attempt to govern my heart into some semblance of forgiveness. The tide of bitterness rising within me as I realize that my child's health has been compromised threatens to overcome me. I want to make a furious phone call, I want to publish the ignominy from the rooftops.

Why does this so enrage me? I think it's simple: my daughter's physical and emotional well-being are my husband's and my responsibility right now. We are the gatekeepers. And our gates have been breached.

I ruefully acknowledge that I cannot protect little E. from everything in the world. I can't guarantee that she'll never be sick, that she'll never have her heart disregarded, that she'll never make a mistake. I am fallible. As a passionate parent I have limitations. I am not omniscient nor am I all-powerful.

But I will do my best to protect her, and when my protection fails I will comfort her. And I will not hesitate to speak in her defense until she can speak for herself. The parental ferocity which has so suddenly arisen within me has a purpose!

What about you? If you're a parent, do you find yourself feeling the same way? If not, what do you think about parental ferocity?

Welcome to the World, Little One

I just might be the luckiest woman in the world. Beside me in milky dignity stretches my lovely newborn daughter. Newly fed, burped, and warm, she has no need unmet; her heart is content.

It is still a mystery to me that such a perfect child could have been conceived, nurtured, and torn from my own body. How can the spark of irresistible love so burn that a new being is created where there was none?

February 2nd I had the great privilege of giving birth to a daughter. At 6 lbs. 7 oz. she remained healthy throughout the labor and regained her birth weight within five days. She enchants us with her small mannerisms, her perfect storms of emotion, and the peace which rules her countenance.

Dear E., welcome to the world!

Nesting

People have said all sorts of cliches to me during my pregnancy. Anytime pickles are mentioned, people look meaningfully in my direction as if they know, they just know, how often I eat them these days.* "You're huge!" is the current, highly annoying comment.* But at the top of the list is the significant giggle when they warn me about the NESTING INSTINCT!!!


Now I'm not a domestic goddess. Only once in my life have I become excited about house cleaning, and that was for the week after my wedding--a week which ended with me accidentally slicing my wrist open and nearly losing the use of my left hand forever. Judgement, I remind myself whenever cleaning becomes too exciting, for getting too involved in something so inconsequential.

But this morning I turned to my husband and said, "I really feel like I should be freezing food. But we don't have any room in the freezer." And then I looked down at the five (lovely) muffins remaining from our breakfast and said, "I think I'll freeze these muffins for after the baby comes."

And then realized that all those people were right! I've been worried over laundry, the unfinished-until-yesterday nursery, the dirty little strips of wax on the kitchen floor, the vaccuum bag, the handsoap refill which seems to have disappeared, food, food, and food. My nesting instinct might look more like a normal person's stewardship, but for me, it's a bit overdone.

The great thing about it all is that our little one will come when its ready regardless of whether I made that apple pie or not. Or bleached the bathroom. Or dusted my pantry. And thankfully, soon, the nesting instinct will creep out the back door in my psyche, ashamed at how little progress it made. I'll wave goodbye and grin.




*Irregardless of the fact that the combination of pickles and ice cream sounds like heartburn on a plate, besides, in a metaphor-mixing way, taking the cake for gross dinner ideas!

*I know, of course I am, every woman at 38 weeks is huge--there's a full-sized baby in there! I'm not as big as a house, I'm a hotel! The wonderful little person in there will be checking out soon and I do think we'll both be relieved!