“Can’t you rest?”
My mother asked me, back when she was visiting in late November. I sat beside her on the couch. Stellan was in bed. I was pumping with a work document open on my laptop as I half-watched the movie we’d put on. I couldn't really understand the question – like, how? I couldn’t stop pumping, if that’s what she meant. Which meant I couldn’t comfortably recline until I was finished… which meant I might as well catch up on some tasks before tomorrow arrived. And since I was struggling to make enough milk as it was, I might as well leave the pump going, in hopes of getting whatever I could for the ‘extra’ bottle I would need for my hungry baby the following day… which meant, I might as well just recline once I’m finally in bed.
Today—two months later, and two days after two full weeks alone with Stellan came to a close—that question strikes me in the gut. I had a hard night last night. My narrative of recent flourishing was punctured, first with a conversation with Manny, in which I processed some discontent in our current status quo, then with a 2am nursing call from Stellan, following another at 3am. I didn’t have enough milk to put him back to sleep. No amount of pacifier replacement, or rocking could keep him from moaning, and then wailing. Impulsively, for the first time since he was born, I removed myself from the room: “I’m done.” I took my pillow to the living room couch, the same one I so rarely recline on these days, and instead of sleeping, I wept. I heard Stellan crying from the other room and I knew I was leaving Manny to figure it out. I knew he’d use the bottle in the fridge, the one I'd rely on to get through my next day. I plugged my ears and cried.
It scared me, how quickly I went from joyfully reflecting on my successes of the previous two weeks, to collapsing in a puddle away from my family. And hours later, I am still shaken, deflated. I’d already planned a day off from work, and imagined cramming it with relaxation - a gym visit, a much needed real haircut, baking, maybe even a massage or a pedicure. All my desires poured into this 7-hour container. Instead, I dropped Stellan off at daycare and sulked on the couch, opening my laptop, and doing some work. I did bake. I will get my haircut. First, I am pumping again as I write this. Part of me knows that this low mood doesn’t strip the very real joy and satisfaction and accomplishment I’ve felt; but for now, I am sitting in the soggy otherside, without the immediate need for insight or redemption.