The newborn
weeks are over.
My writing died to chaos and infant-induced disorganization, and I have somehow let two months escape my intended keepsake blogging (this is equally as devastating as it is unsurprising).
Janson is now wide-eyed, pursing his lips to coo. He smiles. There is no established routine, although motherhood blogs and baby training packages flaunt an atrociously specific eat-play-sleep schedule: wake up at 7 in the morning, eat for about 15 minutes, then begin entertaining your baby for the 60-90 minute wake window…repeat…repeat…
We are overjoyed if our son exhibits even one predictable action in a day. An entire schedule with a perfectly tied bow is laughably impossible. Watching him on the crib monitor, I grimace at any grunt or movement, defeatedly surrendering a half-completed task. Last night, I simultaneously pleaded with both my son and God to let me finish making my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Creativity is as impromptu as a nap lasting more than 20 minutes. Frankly, I expected to have my life together by now - to be going on daily walks, talking to new freelance clients, cooking balanced meals and communicating to my husband that I’m proud of his natural inclination to be a present and loving father. None of those practices are implemented.
Self-pity is my most prominent emotion. Ian’s freelancing is providing steady work (a blessing), naturally resulting in my being home alone with Janson most days and some nights -the maternal deep end for postpartum mothers. I watch the morning news as he drinks his first bottle. We have unspoken conversations through gurgles and unpack the latest The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives episode.
Janson loves the living room fan and the cherry taste of his gas drops. He is most relaxed when pooping and most terrified when transitioning out of sleep. He has intently watched nine minutes of a Baby Einstein episode (a win for concentration; a loss for my anti screen-time philosophy).
I find comfort in the illusion of daily structure and struggle with how I’ve lost myself within “life’s hardest job.” A friend recently pointed out my “autopilot” behavior and limited range of conversation points during early motherhood. In my defense, what mother could conjure any riveting conversation when her brain cycles through a redundant set of thoughts each day. Is Janson hungry? He’s rubbing his eyes. When should I put him down for a nap? What would I do if I could leave the house right now? It’s almost bath time. How many times will he wake up tonight? I’m going to be so tired in the morning.
Contrary to my hyperbolic complaints, I’m blessed to be able to stay home with Janson all day. My mother says she “didn’t appreciate being home enough” when I was an infant. “All I do is work now,” she shrugs.
Sometimes, parenting feels like a customer service job with a very needy and temperamental client. However, I love my son. Not only do I carry out constant work (I toss up the terms “work” and “responsibility” interchangeably), but I’m nurturing Janson’s mind and our relationship with everything I do.
I’m teaching him numbers, patience, the perfect coffee shop order, the types of flowers, and how life blooms according to where you plant it. I’m also an example of how you can’t linger in the transitions and growth; you must be an active participant.
Each day is a ritual in remembering that I have gained myself as well.