Half the time, I don't know if he's doing his talking-in-his-sleep fuss or his real-awake fuss, so I have to sit at the edge of the bed, listening. If it's a sleep fuss, I have to try to sleep again, and as soon as I manage that, he'll do it again and I'll be up again.
If it's an awake fuss, I stumble out, twisting my hair up so he won't pull it. I will admit to a second or two of feeling very sorry for myself at this time.
He freaks all throughout his diaper change. I hold the diaper over his peen as long as I possibly can, I swear, but he chooses the magical moment when he is all wiped up and clean and the diapers are being switched to pee all over himself, me, and creation. He is strangely serene when he does this. Then he realizes he's wet, and cold from the wet, and he looks at me as if I'VE peed on him: "You slut; what in my personal ad made you think I was into golden showers?"
The clean up and costume change that follows this is accompanied by his loudest howls. The neighbors must think I'm beating him with a stick. In my nicest voice, I tell him he's horribly abused and I'll be calling Child Protective Services presently so he can be taken away from his cruel mother.
We proceed to the living room, where I do all my nighttime feedings. I'm trying to get my modesty back, but it's hard when I fall asleep at four in the morning, breasts to the wind, sitting up on the couch, and only wake at six when my in-laws go to the kitchen. They try to have breakfast and politely ignore my boobs, but it must not be all that appetizing.
My dad bought us a huge sage green rocker/recliner chair that was delivered today. You don't really sit in it. Your whole body melts into it. There is no way I will be able to stay awake in that thing. I'll end up at the dining room table.
The other night, I woke up on the couch because my head fell back and slammed against the wall. It didn't hurt so much, but it was loud.
A couple hours later, a little after 5 a.m., something hit the side of the building. Like a really big truck. That's what it sounded like, anyhow. The whole place shook and there was a huge noise. Then it was over. The kid didn't flinch, but I was suddenly awake. I looked left and right. I didn't know whether I should investigate, or if it had been all in my head. These days, it could have been.
I stood up, went to my bedroom. Mr. Aran was awake. I asked what the noise was, and he said it was a sonic boom. That's when I remembered the space shuttle was supposed to be landing nearby at 5:15 a.m. I got all excited. This whole time, the kid is still nursing. When he has a good latch, I'm pretty sure I could let go of him, and he would just hang there from my nipple.
So we all went to the living room and turned on the TV, and watched the shuttle land, and I explained things to the kid, who could not have cared less but listened well.
When he falls asleep nursing, he looks vulnerable, completely blissed out and perfect, even with his shedding lizard skin.
Sometimes, he cries awhile after he's done eating. When I finally get him down, though, I'm not done. I drink a little water to stimulate milk production, rub lanolin on my nipples to keep them from cracking and bleeding, straighten up my bra and insert the nursing pads, take down my hair. If it's late in the night, I'll have cereal. I go to the bathroom, which is still a bit of a process. I go to bed and fold myself into the three square inches of space my husband has left for me on the bed. Sometimes, he is nice enough to leave me a pillow.
If I am unlucky, I'll have forty-five minutes or so until the fussing starts again. If I'm lucky, like last night, I'll get two hours.
Like any other ordeal, thinking about it is much worse than actually living through it.
posted by Samus @ 9:12 PM
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