Night 1:
His gentle whimper wafts across the hall. I open my eyes knowingly. I’ve been vaguely awake and mildly panicking for about 10 minutes, wondering why I hadn’t heard him cry yet. It’s 1:33 a.m. and my five-month-old son, Thomas, has been asleep for OVER. SIX. HOURS.
I tune into his rustling from the other room. After an oddly long stretch of sleep, it’s welcome confirmation to a first-time mom. He’s still there.
Thomas continues to stir. I can hear the light rustling of his sleep sack against his crib. Perhaps he’ll go back to sleep? Could this be the first time he goes right through until morning?
Another sweet whimper floats through the air.
“OK, little man. You’re hungry,” I say to myself. “Mommy is coming.”
I reach over to the nightstand and find my phone. I grab it and confirm the time; it has in fact been over six hours of sleep. I do a small dance in my head and mentally pat myself on the back. I must have done something right! I go over the previous day in my mind, promising to repeat my every move exactly tomorrow. Wow. More sleep to come. I’m going to be a whole new woman.
Before getting up to feed Thomas, I glance to the other side of the bed confirming my husband is still asleep. He’s just started a new job to better support our family and has to be up at 5:00 am. He works so hard and, while he never complains, I know he needs the rest.
I ease out of the warmth of the covers, and quietly cross our room, the hallway and into my babe’s nursery, lighting the way with my phone. Thomas squints ever so slightly at my appearance. I pick him up and his whimpers cease immediately. His call has been answered. I snuggle him for a moment, cherishing the beauty of babyhood. This age is so unique, so pure. I feel so needed, as if I carry the magic potion to dispel his every worry. I love this bond and wouldn’t trade it for anything.
We lower together into the rocking chair. By the dim glow from my phone, I gently latch my mostly-sleeping baby to my breast. His eyes don’t open, but he is quietly desperate for his midnight snack.
A few minutes pass and his sucking slows, his breath gets deeper. His round, pudgy body gets heavier in my arms. Little Thomas is back to sleep already, his tummy satisfied. I rock there with him for a few moments, taking time to stare at his perfect little face. He is chubby and rosy-cheeked, his skin is soft and smooth. The quintessential “Gerber Baby” is a recurring comment from strangers on the street. I always thank them, slightly embarrassed by the compliment, but looking at him now, in the solitude of our nightly date, I allow myself to admit it; he absolutely is perfect.
I’m often overwhelmed in these moments, when we are all alone and the entire world is quiet, with how much I love this little being. I flash forward into his life and think of what I hope for him, what I fear for him. Carefully reminding myself that he will not be a baby much longer. My heart bursts, aches even, with love and emotion for my beautiful baby boy – the most wonderful addition to our family, making us happier than we ever could have dreamed.
Soon enough my own eyes get heavy. Right, it’s 1:45 in the morning and I’m tired. I carefully raise Thomas’ body onto my shoulder and stand up slowly so as not to disrupt him. He exhales heavily but stays sleeping. His body is a ball of dough, perfectly weighted against mine, moulded into my neck and shoulder. I sway back and forth with him, kiss him as many times as I think I can manage without waking him up.
“I love you little man,” I tell him. “Sleep well.”
I place him back into his crib and with one more heavy exhale, a turn of his head and a pursing of his lips, Thomas is back to bed. Peacefully dreaming.
As I tiptoe back to my own bed, I miss him already. I think about morning when we’ll hang out again and cuddle some more.
I curl up next to my sleeping husband. “Good,” I think. “He didn’t wake up, and has no idea what he’s missed.”
Night 2
The tinny shriek pierces through the baby monitor and into my ear. It echoes and crashes through the hallway into our room. The loud screams are coming from all angles. I’m startled awake and feel like the whole house is shaking with this little baby’s cries.
“NO!” I think to myself, “no, No, NO!” I JUST fell asleep, I’ve JUST fed him, how can he be hungry?! I reach over to the nightstand grabbing around for my phone. I click it on and confirm my thoughts. It’s 11:48 p.m.. Feeding number one ended just 40 minutes ago. I lie back down, hoping in vain that Thomas will re-settle.
His cries get throaty and desperate. He wants me and he wants me NOW. I turn over to look at my husband, fast asleep. “Isn’t that nice,” I think to myself. In my next life, I’m coming back as a man: no boobs and the ability to sleep through goddamn ANYTHING. I throw the covers off, angry as the frigid air hits my skin. I pound my feet down to the hardwood, walking heavily across the floor; hoping to at least slightly disrupt my husband’s slumber.
I open the door to the nursery and my poor little guy is squirming in his crib. He’s as mad to be awake as I am. He writhes around in his sleep sack until I place my hand on his belly. “It’s OK, Thomas, Mommy is here.”
His cries are not quelled by my touch or my voice. He. Wants. FOOD! With his arching back and flailing arms I struggle to pick him up. I whisper softly into his ear, trying to calm him. It doesn’t work. His frantic hand finds a chunk of my skin below my left eye. His tiny nails are razor sharp and he digs them in with shocking strength. My eyes water with the pain. I clench my teeth and breathe deeply. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he isn’t trying to hurt you,” I remind myself.
I make my way over to the rocking chair and blindly find my seat in the dark. “My phone,” I think to myself. I forgot it on the nightstand! I make a mental note (for the 100th time) to pick up a nightlight for this very reason.
With his fist still firmly gripping my face and his cries mounting to octaves I’ve never heard before, I try to settle Thomas’ writhing body in my arms. “Relax little man, I know you’re hungry. It’s coming.” His feet kick at the end of his sleep sack, frustrated by being contained. I add another item to my mental shopping list: bigger sleep sacks.
I can’t see a thing, I’m distracted by his cries and struggling to keep him safely in my arms, but I’ve got to get this boy fed! I lift my t-shirt up and grab it with my teeth. I hold my breast out and blindly poke around. Thomas’ head is turning and moving as he wails. Finally, he smells what he wants and finds his way to it.
Ah. Quiet.
He drinks eagerly, swallowing big slurps. “How can he be this hungry?” I think to myself. “I literally JUST fed him!” My mind starts. “Am I not making enough milk anymore? Is it because I skipped those feedings last week when we were at that wedding? My production must be down. Do I have to give him formula? He’s such a big boy, maybe he needs formula. Or is it time to add solid foods? Yes. That’s it. It’s time for solids. That will help us get more sleep. I will read up on that tomorrow… “ I mentally pencil my baby food research in after a nap (wishful thinking but I’ll be dying for one the way this night has started out) and a trip to the store for a nightlight and sleep sack.
Thomas’ gulps slow to a stop. His kicking feet are now calm and his arms are resting. Asleep. He’s asleep, but still latched. I carefully sneak my finger between his mouth and my breast to sneak myself away without him noticing. I fail. Thomas is vaulted back into a frenzy. “I wasn’t finished!” his cries scream at me.
“OK, OK! Here, have the other side,” I tell him as I flip his heavy body to my left breast, in the idiotic hope that he understands. I lift my shirt up to my teeth, he pulls it back down with his hands. I lift it again trying not to drop his squirming body, bite my t-shirt and repeat the process. Ten minutes of greedy gulping later, he’s done. He is quiet. I bring him up to my shoulder and burp him. His small whimpers start up again. I briskly walk to his crib and place him down. If I make a quick getaway maybe he’ll forget I was even here? I race out of the nursery to the sound of his mounting cries. I hover by the door for a while, shivering in my pyjamas and curling my bare toes against the cold floor. I lightly finger the scratch below my eye, confirming that blood was drawn. I listen in the cold, dark hallway. Will he quiet on his own? Or will I have to go in for another round of battle? I count slowly in my head, trying to pass the time… 101, 102, 103… . A few minutes pass and it seems he has found his thumb. He is quiet. I stealthily creep back to my bed, hungry for sleep.
In bed, I find my husband lightly snoring and I cannot imagine a more irritating sound. I contemplate ‘accidentally’ punching him in the nose but rationalize that, while it might be satisfying, it won’t actually get me to sleep any faster. I curl up, pulling the covers over my shivering body. I lie my bloodied cheek down on my pillow. I’ll wash the sheets tomorrow, after I read up on solid food introduction for infants.
I peer at the monitor to confirm Thomas is asleep. He is still and quiet so I give myself permission to drift off, at least for a moment.
