Remember that you’re tired. I repeat this to myself, like a mantra. It explains a lot these days, though it’s oddly forgettable. Before I had a baby, I had this image of the bionic mother in my head, the one who somehow bends space-time to create more hours in the day. Where did we get this idea that less sleep plus caring for another living being equals cyborg-like abilities to get things done?
Olivia’s sleeping better these days, but our nights are still broken up into four to six hour stretches. We’re working on it. And I’m often surprised by my capacity, at two or three AM, to hold the baby just a little longer than I need to, after she’s fallen back asleep. I’ll stand there in a half-stupor just feeling her little rib cage expand and release against my own body, listening to the soft whistle of her occasional sighs—the best. Sorry to alienate anyone who knew me in a previous life, but yes: I say things like this now. Baby sighs are the best. Sorry.
Fragmented nights mean productivity looks different these days. Writing, especially. Cooking, too. I used to require a certain mood, a stillness, in order to do both of those things. But these days don’t leave too much space for private, introverted moods. They’re filled to the brim with hard work and this business of caring for a four-month-old, making sure she’s nourished and happy and then making sure I too am nourished and happy, so I can keep up with it all. And I’m pleased to report that we are doing OK with the whole eating well thing. Maybe too well. I mean, lactation cookies are really for the baby, right?!
I’m learning to be less precious, to get more done in stolen moments. I set fewer goals, smaller. I am also learning to not wait for permission, to not pause on the things I want to do until I’ve done the things I have to do. Today, I wanted to sit here and write to you and I’m doing so from a messy kitchen counter—which is as good a place to read/work/write as any. On Friday afternoon, after work, I had a craving to make stuffed peppers, which oddly coincided with my having all the ingredients for stuffed peppers. So I tiptoed around the kitchen while Olivia napped, chopping carefully enough to break the momentum of my knife before it hit the cutting board, easing the fridge door open and shut.
I’d hoped to bring you more wisdom by now, to have discovered some secret for keeping up with it all while caring for an infant. But I’m getting by on stolen moments and lowered expectations, and that feels good enough for now. I try to wake up early, before the baby does. Having a few hours to write/think/catch up on whatever I’m reading helps immensely with my sanity. That and a proper cup of coffee. But sometimes I end up staring at a blank screen for too long, fighting brain fog. Sometimes I have to lie flat on the floor for a moment, close my eyes, and let myself feel pleasantly heavy.
I built my identity around productivity, in what I could accomplish at work and at home, on the tidiness of the apartment and the quantity of check marks on my list. Instead, I’m thinking more than I ever have about how I get things done, how to be as present and engaged as I can be. Maybe that’s the secret: to focus on how rather than what, on being rather than doing, and letting that be okay. It’s an ongoing challenge. For now, at least, it helps to be patient and forgive myself, to remember that I’m tired.
