The baby has stopped being fussy with food and will involve himself in whatever I put in front of him. Sometimes he will only mash it with his hands or touch the very tips of his fingertips to the food, and then to his mouth. That counts as ‘exposure’ to the food, and I celebrate it. Other times he puts it straight into his mouth as if he is familiar with it, although I know that he is not. It is inexplicable. It is fun. It’s better than the long weeks of potato waffles and crying to be released from the chair, to be allowed infinite breast milk.
“I don’t cook anymore,” I say, but actually my days are filled with cooking. It is the sort of cooking that I don’t give value to: hurriedly seasoned, everything into one tray, thrown into the oven so that I can return to the baby. But it is good, in the end, when I sit down to share it with him. Why do I associate such value to hard labour? Are we not eating well? Is the baby not happy? Are his face and hands not sticky? Is his belly not round? It is! Like a pale moon, I beam when I pull up his vest at bathtime.
I must labour, perhaps, to give meaning to my days. I must feel productive — not weary from the mere drudgery of laundry and soothing and changing and walking and entertaining and housework — but somehow as if I have in addition to this performed some small miracle.
Then might I sleep???
I think I am going to die from sleep deprivation. I am alone with my own thoughts, and the thoughts are bad. I put the baby to bed and sit alone with my thoughts. I wake at 3:30am, 4am, and am alone with my thoughts. Sometimes I think I am willing the baby to cry so that I will have something to do. My thoughts are cyclical and bitter. I don’t write because I am embarrassed of the subjects to which I might attend. I have insomnia. I am lonely.
My boyfriend travels for work and is away for many nights. I am sort of used to it but it also takes my breath away when I look at our shared calendar and see all the grey dots that mark his absence.
We went away last weekend and lay in bed all day in a little house in France. I slept and slept.
Hello,
I stumbled across this and my heart burned in my chest. I remember those feelings too well. My husband was in the house but in a different room, fast asleep, and I felt so alone and also had very, very dark thoughts. My baby is nearly 5 (years!) and I still remember it all but without so much of the pain and guilt. It took a long time and therapy. I'm back to being sleep deprived but nothing like what you're going through. I hope the days of sleeping provide some reprieve for a while. I just wanted you to know that what you're feeling isn't uncommon. Motherhood is so incredibly hard and it can feel shameful to feel that, because so many women do it and have done it. I do think it depends so much on your support system and perhaps your expectation and pressure we put on ourselves. I hope it gets better soon. If you can prioritise sleep (ha!), that, I think, is the only thing that might help. Sending love.