Not Easy

Even though I remember the haze of newborn sleepless nights quite well, it’s no less difficult to relive them again. And, not to harp on age, but seriously— there’s a reason why a woman’s most fertile years are well behind her by the time she’s in her 40s. This stage is hard regardless. Compound it with being in the season where you need bifocals to read ingredient labels and yeah… it’s pretty exhausting.

Alice is not what you would call an easy baby. Oh, she’s delightful. We love her to the moon and back. She’s perfect and healthy and beautiful and all of the things you pray for as a mother. But I knew when she was still in utero that this little person was not what you’d call a tame personality, and she has not disappointed. She is most definitely on the fussy side of things. She is persnickety when it comes to her sensory inputs, and has no problem sharing her lack of agreement when her situation is not exactly to her liking. She is easily overstimulated. Life in our busy house is going to stretch her endurance quite a bit.

The hardest part of these past few weeks has been my own feeling of not being enough. A very large part of that is hormones talking; I have a long history of PPD, and this particular round hit hard and fast. There’s more, of course. Being removed from the daily routine and the ability to be the main cog upon which the family’s schedule spins is hard when you’re the mom, and you truly love all the little bits that make up that big, beautiful life that is swirling throughout the house every day. I’ve managed a few precious slices of school with the kids, just bare minimum as we are on a perfectly-timed two week break from CC. I haven’t taken more than a brief walk out of doors with my kids. I’ve barely cooked in the three weeks since Alice was born— a huge blessing gifted to us by so many amazing friends who have provided meal upon meal. It’s marvelous, and also makes me slightly wistful, because I love cooking, and have absolutely no bandwidth for it right now. I haven’t baked in weeks, either. Or knit. Somehow my brain takes all of that and decides that I am failing, or that I could try harder and do and be more for the people around me. My husband works hard to burst the bubble of that myth every day and bring me back to reality. Still… it’s a struggle.

What I have done is nurse my beautiful baby girl. A lot. Though there are tons of arms dying to hold her, more often than not (as is normal at this stage), she needs to be fed or coddled in some way that only Momma can provide. And while I am five years out of practice, I remember clearly this part, this sweet, brief year where I am myself plus one, always. My hands immediately recalled the soft sweep-and-pat burping motion, my hips fell back into the rhythm of the sway that soothes away the fussiest moments. I have adjusted to Alice’s weight on my shoulder, my chest. She is part of me but not; we are in that stage of separate but connected that is now called “the fourth trimester.” I realize how blessed I am to be able to truly just pause and soak in the goodness of this time. It is a gift I don’t take for granted, and one I relish every single time.

Life here is far from “back to normal.” It’s not even close to a “new normal” yet. I have a feeling it will be some time before we find a rhythm that sticks amidst the comings and goings of college kids, the activities and needs of the ones at home, and the changes Alice will constantly bring to the table as she grows. That’s o.k. The season ahead is going to be challenging and rewarding, sanctifying and memorable. Like Alice, I have a feeling it won’t be what people think of when they say “easy”… but it will be so obviously worth the journey as we walk it out.