There are very little words that one can use to describe what happens to your head, your core, your soul when your child is born. They've been used millions upon millions of times and it is always pretty much the same sentiment: everything changes. Your heart expands to love someone beyond what you ever thought being capable of. I fell madly, deeply, crazily in love with my husband again, but even that was different. It was all bigger, deeper, soul-altering. We had shared and created and wept and prayed and yearned for this child. And there, after almost three hours of pushing, and with no epidural for the last 30 minutes, my husband was holding up one of my legs and giving me the eye-to-eye contact I so desperately needed. And then...at a moment when it felt as if the earth stopped turning on its axis...our son...our SON....emerged...slithered....flew....out of me with one final push that made me feel more alive than I've ever felt. It was the most sweet, visceral pain and then release. He had been released from the confines of my body, my womb, my pelvic bone, my narrow birth canal. All 8 lbs, 15.8 oz, which they rounded up to 9 lbs. He was free.
And I am forever captive to him.
So now we try to figure out sleeping and eating and not much else. What does that cry mean? Is that expression on his face signifying anything more than gas? Is he angry? Is he sad? Is he in pain? Pee, poop, change diaper, rock, pacifier, feed. Repeat. I have managed to sleep 7 hours straight in one shot to the detriment of G. He slept for that long and I relished it, but he should have eaten somewhere in the middle. Now we have him on an eating schedule, which makes all of our lives easier. Even though I can't ever get more than 4 hours of sleep in at night, at least, I can regulate my nap times. This is what it has come to, hoping to nap on a regular basis.
I spent the entire first week, including that Thursday night before he was delivered, wide awake. I never slept more than a few minutes at a time. I had banked about 4 hours by his one week birthday. And I felt slightly deranged.
My mom said that she was tired until we were about 9 years old. Her advantage was her youth: at least she was under 40 by the time everyone was 9. In fact, when she was my age, I was 20 and off at college. My brother Chris was born the day after she turned 30. And that was the end of babies for her. I still shudder to think that I will be 50 when G. is 9. And then I look to my aunt Roxie for inspiration. She will be 55 in March. Her beautiful daughter will be 12 the day after her 55th birthday. And Roxie looks like a million bucks. I hope I've got those genes - my Granny's genes. She is still drop dead gorgeous at 88. And I've got the late fertility gene on my side. Which is good. Because, yes, we are already talking about doing it again.
So, back to those doors - oh my gosh, this one just flew open and will never shut! Wide open, no going back, huge double doors with giant knockers (ha!). There he is, inside this new, incredibly beautiful room: so full of light and shadow, questions and windows, hidden knowledge, wisdom to be had, and God, God, God everywhere. Oh is the Lord sweet or what? What has He done for me? What has He done to me? Softened, broadened, enhanced, deepened my capacity to love unconditionally. And to have a greater understanding of His love for us, His children, and for His own Son.
These thoughts sort of consume my being in my waking hours, which are plentiful right now. And they seem to have taken hold in some visceral way, as well. I have muscle memory of the love that created and held this child inside me. And now, waking or sleeping, everywhere I see his face.
I expect to be wide awake for a while. And I don't expect to sleep soundly again for a long, long time. I hear him. Must run.
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