Sat 25 Oct 2008
for six straight hours last night, she either nursed or screamed. i bounced her. her father burped her. we rocked her and i nursed her more and more and again more, pinned under my cheery giant pillow like a museum display of Motherhood. my spine eventually curled, nerves raw from the prolonged hormonal torture that is Your Newborn Crying, but her father got me a glass of Wolfblass and took her upstairs for a fresh diaper and generally quite redeemed himself from all that thankyou card nonsense, really.
we had friends in, and eating and drinking and talking went on despite the maelstrom at the centre of the house. we raised our voices to be heard. i swayed like Stevie Wonder through the conversations, lolling my head with the rise and fall of her protests, clucking and cooing while asking adult questions with the other half of my mouth. i heard nobody fully, maybe…but i was mostly there. enough to enjoy myself, despite the fact that she was having her worst evening to date.
and then it ended in a fit of poop and the cocoon of the sling. curled close to me, she suddenly quieted. we waved our friends off. we slept…never long enough, but deeply.
i tell people it’s easier – for us, at least – the second time around. it’s partly Posey herself…while last night was rare for her, it was the way Oscar’s evenings ran without fail until he was nearly four months old. but i know, too, this time, that it’ll end. i know that i’ll sleep again someday. and i know that hiding upstairs trying to settle the baby before i engage with my friends is a pointless, losing battle, one that will only ensure that i miss out on all the wine and most of the good gossip. i know, even in the moment, that these are not nights to wish away.