The Day Ahead
Today is my first day—my first whole day—alone with Lucia. Andrew left for a business trip this morning at 5am and won’t be back until around 10pm tonight. So it’s just me and the baby, all day. I was alone with her on Friday for most of the day—but Andrew came home for lunch and was home for good at 5:30pm, so this is an entirely new experience.
I wouldn’t be so stressed about it had yesterday not been so horrendous. For some reason—likely a perfect storm of tomatoes and grapefruit in my diet on Sunday—Lucia cried the entire day. Not just whimpers or plaintive wails; this was full-throated, best-birth-control-ever crying, the kind that seems to be best delivered directly into mama’s ear. If I put her down, she cried. If I picked her up, she cried. If we moved and danced, she cried. If we gently rocked, she cried. By the time Andrew came home at 3:30pm so I could go to a doctor’s appointment, I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
The appointment itself was upsetting in a way I hadn’t expected. It was the first time I’d seen my midwife since before the baby was born (she wasn’t the one who was with me for the delivery), and we talked about the birth and what had happened. I hadn’t really talked about it for a while, and doing so in an examination room, while wearing a hospital gown, kind of brought it all back. Then she examined me and said I’m healing fine, then hugged me and said it was great to have been a part of our pregnancy—and maybe she’d see me again in a couple of years. It was so strange to know I won’t be seeing her anymore, and stranger still to know I won’t have any more appointments. I’m healing, nearly healed, and have been released into the world as a mother, ready to get on with things. I felt, as irrational as this seems, abandoned and alone.
When I got back from my appointment, Andrew had to go back to work, and Lucia picked up where she left off, still inconsolable. This time, both mama and baby cried and cried together. By the time Andrew got home I’d crossed over into some kind of mother-zombie state. She finally, finally went to sleep around 8pm, and we had a decent night.
This morning, when I peeked into the bassinet, met her wide-awake eyes, and whispered, “Good morning, little one,” I felt a kind of overwhelming anxiety that I can compare—and bear with me here—only to when I stepped off the plane in Iceland during my first experience traveling alone. I remember walking down the jetway at Keflavik airport, gazing out the windows and seeing nothing but snow and black lava rock for miles, and wondering just why on earth I’d decided to spend a week alone in what felt like a city at the edge of the world. Three things crossed my mind: Why did I think this was a good idea? Am I really going to be able to do this? And finally, since I came all this way…I’d better get out there, explore, and make the most of it. (I had an amazing trip.)
That sense of taking a deep breath and plunging into an unfamiliar, vaguely scary, fully uncharted experience is how I felt this morning as the baby and I began our day together. Here I am, the day ahead, without the option of hopping back on the plane and heading back to more solid ground. We might cry, we might sleep, but we’ll get through it; and, hopefully, I’ll get better at all this one day at a time.
I wouldn’t be so stressed about it had yesterday not been so horrendous. For some reason—likely a perfect storm of tomatoes and grapefruit in my diet on Sunday—Lucia cried the entire day. Not just whimpers or plaintive wails; this was full-throated, best-birth-control-ever crying, the kind that seems to be best delivered directly into mama’s ear. If I put her down, she cried. If I picked her up, she cried. If we moved and danced, she cried. If we gently rocked, she cried. By the time Andrew came home at 3:30pm so I could go to a doctor’s appointment, I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
The appointment itself was upsetting in a way I hadn’t expected. It was the first time I’d seen my midwife since before the baby was born (she wasn’t the one who was with me for the delivery), and we talked about the birth and what had happened. I hadn’t really talked about it for a while, and doing so in an examination room, while wearing a hospital gown, kind of brought it all back. Then she examined me and said I’m healing fine, then hugged me and said it was great to have been a part of our pregnancy—and maybe she’d see me again in a couple of years. It was so strange to know I won’t be seeing her anymore, and stranger still to know I won’t have any more appointments. I’m healing, nearly healed, and have been released into the world as a mother, ready to get on with things. I felt, as irrational as this seems, abandoned and alone.
When I got back from my appointment, Andrew had to go back to work, and Lucia picked up where she left off, still inconsolable. This time, both mama and baby cried and cried together. By the time Andrew got home I’d crossed over into some kind of mother-zombie state. She finally, finally went to sleep around 8pm, and we had a decent night.
This morning, when I peeked into the bassinet, met her wide-awake eyes, and whispered, “Good morning, little one,” I felt a kind of overwhelming anxiety that I can compare—and bear with me here—only to when I stepped off the plane in Iceland during my first experience traveling alone. I remember walking down the jetway at Keflavik airport, gazing out the windows and seeing nothing but snow and black lava rock for miles, and wondering just why on earth I’d decided to spend a week alone in what felt like a city at the edge of the world. Three things crossed my mind: Why did I think this was a good idea? Am I really going to be able to do this? And finally, since I came all this way…I’d better get out there, explore, and make the most of it. (I had an amazing trip.)
That sense of taking a deep breath and plunging into an unfamiliar, vaguely scary, fully uncharted experience is how I felt this morning as the baby and I began our day together. Here I am, the day ahead, without the option of hopping back on the plane and heading back to more solid ground. We might cry, we might sleep, but we’ll get through it; and, hopefully, I’ll get better at all this one day at a time.
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