There's a cartoon that resonated with me completely when I was a new mom. It's of a mother nursing her baby, but her cell phone is just out of reach on the bed. The mom looks at the phone desperately, but it's impossible. She's trapped, and she doesn't even have the dull escape of endless scrolling to console her.
I was never one of those mothers who swooned about the baby stage. I didn't understand women who cooed over "baby snuggles" and "baby smell." Sure, I agreed that babies were cute, but they were so boring. The first months with each of my girls felt like a continuum of nothingness. I knew it was necessary nothingness to ensure they reached the real person stage, but I wasn't keen to stretch it out. I was thrilled when the girls started crawling, then walking, and then talking. I shed no tears over the end of breastfeeding. We potty-trained early. We shifted out of cribs early.
Some women told me that I'd miss the sweet baby days once they had passed, but I honestly don't. I'm glad my daughters can go to the bathroom alone, and buckle their own seatbelts, and sleep through the night.
Of course, children at all ages have their own challenges, and I feel every one of those challenges today, as we celebrate Christmas (three days early) at Jeremy's mom's house. There are twelve people--six adults and six children. For me, six children in one house feels like a lot, and high emotions over presents and who got the best toys meant plenty of drama. I felt myself growing tense and grouchy as the morning dragged on and presents, boxes, and ribbons extended their reach over the entirety of the first floor. An afternoon walk and park visit helped reinvigorate me a bit, but soon we were back inside the crowded house for dinner.
Jeremy's mom had been holding Benjamin, who, at nine months old, is the youngest of the cousins. I claimed my nephew so that Marian could eat, and his pathetic cries made it clear he was sleepy. I bounced him back and forth in my arms, shifting my weight from one leg to another. I shushed him quietly, mimicking the sound of a hair dryer. Soon, he was asleep in my arms. I walked over to a kitchen chair and sat down. I knew I'd be sitting there until he awoke. I was nap trapped.
Part of me said to embrace the moment. Benjamin was warm and heavy against my chest. His face was at total peace. It was a sweet moment. But my arm ached, my lower back hurt, and that all-consuming nature of new motherhood passed over me.
Even years removed from the newborn days of my own children, I felt the ambivalence over the sacrifice required for new mothers. After all, I had made all the sacrifices of a "good mom," but I hadn't feel warm and satisfied at the time.
Benjamin didn't nap all that long--maybe twenty or thirty minutes. Once he was awake, he got passed back to his mom for feeding. I was freed again, to snuggle my own, much larger children as we watched Elf on the couch. They, too, are warm and heavy against my chest. But I don't feel nearly so trapped.
[This essay also finished a day later than the published date, but only because my laptop ran out of battery, and I'd forgotten to bring my charger to Jeremy's mom's house.]
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