One in which I find myself swimming in with every waking breath (except, inexplicably, when I’m eating and she’s out of sight, or I’m on a run. This state is momentary only). Sometimes (oftentimes) adrift, occasionally in sync with the movement of time and present with the moments that pass with my baby and me. But through all of it, time has dilated: first it expanded to encompass this little creature I gave birth to: her feeding, her changing, her sleeping, her noises, her lack of noises. All of it on the forefront of every sense my body possesses, with the only thing able to briefly give reprieve were the rare moments of sleep, stole in minutes and if lucky, hours.
But now, sixteen weeks in (at what point should I start using months? Four months sounds reasonable…making people do mental arithmetic higher than 3 months seems unnecessary), and the dilation has contracted. Time is speeding up. The days pass by in a blur and one day bleeds into the next. The rota is still the same: feeding, changing, sleeping. But new elements have been added: bath time, smiles, coo-ing conversations and the occasional giggle of delight; grabbing (attempting to) grab at things.
My own mother is here and two days after she arrived I cried. Finally she was here and already I was sad of her leaving in five weeks! That in essence is my brain on motherhood: already I fear or am worried/anxious for the unseen corner, just around the riverbend. I fear the unseen microbe or the virus riding the invisible waves of air. The thought of going back into hospital–seeing little Evalyn once again so small and fragile in that place– makes me shudder. Today at my line manager’s 20th anniversary party in town, a two year old gave a hacking cough close to Evalyn. I try not to catastraphise: I cannot protect her from every airborne illness. She WILL get sick, one of these days, and indeed has already had a cold (I suspect). Her nose is stuffy and a bit runny already.
But ideally, she will not get more than just a cold within her first year of life.
That is how I live my days, too: forever thinking of the next milestone or condition she will be in “when she is older, she will be stronger and bigger”. And hoping to make it to that point, thinking that I will feel less anxious and hoping by that point I will know within my bones she is okay.
My mom points this out to me: she is doing great. Look at her smile, look at her laugh, look at her use her little fingers to grasp at the toy. This is all true. She is bubbly and content. She feeds and produces wet and dirty nappies. She still has a clicking sound during most feedings, and burps a lot, and sometimes gets very frustrated on the right boob. But during dream feeds in the dead of night she is calm and peaceful and taking good swallows.
16 weeks in and I’m still learning to trust my baby and her rythms. She is her own river, going at her own pace, and just for a little while I’ll carry her until she can chart her own path. Until then, I am in this foreign country, learning the language and relishing in the sweetness of discovery.
