All the Horrible Girliness

I've spent eight days now with what I now think is strep throat, a sharp pain that feels like swallowing big, jagged rocks. This has been accompanied by occasional light fevers, one night of an earache so bad I was sure I'd broken something, and general cough and sniffles. The pain has made me unable to sleep, even when The Bug allows me to, so along with a marginal hearing loss, I walk in a cloud of exhaustion that I feel in the muscles of my face and skull.

I mentioned my hearing loss to The Bug's pediatrician; he looked in my ear and proclaimed I had a cold, but that things seemed to be progressing well. I was relieved to hear it, since I didn't want to take medication. Antibiotics will probably mean I have to wean The Bug.

***

It's been odd in my head, this last week. This is the third or fourth time I've been seriously sick since The Bug was born, and I used to be the kind of person who was always healthy.

As I type that sentence, I think maybe I'm exaggerating. I probably just don't remember all the flus and colds and headaches I suffered before I got pregnant. I remember Spain that way, too: all the funny little cars, the sweet-smelling cigarettes, the beautiful beach, the delicious jamon. But in reality, I was miserable much of the time in Spain. It took me most of my vacation to acclimate to the time difference, I spoke maybe four words of Spanish, and I found the locals to be unkind.

I remember my pre-parenthood life like that. I recall Friday nights out to sushi in new outfits, sleeping in until ten a.m., breezy brunches with no thought of high chairs, gaming until four in the afternoon and then going to the gym, only to go back to gaming until one in the morning. I remember picking up and going anywhere, anytime. But the truth is, I mostly hated my jobs, Mister Aran and I fought over petty things, and I did get sick.

The difference is, when I was sick, I called in. I went to bed and languished there until I was better. After a bad day at work, I went home and didn't have to deal with it again until the next morning. Come Friday, I had two days to do what I wanted. I could make an emergency appointment with my doctor without worrying about babysitters. I only really felt beholden to Mr. Aran, and he didn't expect much of me.

Although I have a lot of help, more than most mothers, I still don't get to come home and leave my work behind at the end of the day. If The Bug decides to be up every thirty minutes, all night long, then I'll be up, too, and it doesn't matter how my throat feels.

Pregnancy irked me because I loved controlling my body, and that was taken away immediately. Motherhood is a spiritual and emotional experience, but mostly it is physical. It may not be as physically taxing as construction work - though it feels like it, carrying my 22.5 pound son up and down my home's stairs - but it is hard, and there is absolutely no calling in sick. I was so excited for The Bug's birth, not because I'd get to meet my son and start our life together, but because I'd finally have my body back all to myself. Breastfeeding threw a wrench into that idea, but when breastfeeding was really hard, I was still recovering from birth and it all sort of lumped together. The Bug took to it like a champ and I discovered why Anne Lamott said it was the purest communication she had ever known. It is communion.

"This is my body," says the priest every mass while blessing the bread, "it will be given up for you."

That is what it means, not only to be pregnant and breastfeed, but to be a mother wholly. The priest, or mother, could just as easily say, "This is my life." Every mother, except maybe Madonna with her brood of nannies, knows this to be true. I felt it first when The Bug was a few weeks old. I had a fever, but still I had to get up to feed him, and it felt like his urgent sucking was tearing my sensitive skin apart.

I was in awe of it, that night, the life I'd agreed to, even through the pain. Now, after several such illnesses, I find it less enchanting. I go through toddler-like fits in my head when I've been up all night, or when I get sick, or when all I want in the world is a latte or a bellini with my brunch. I have little, TV-drama fantasies of gathering all the cash I can and running for it, getting a waitressing job thousands of miles away under an assumed name.

***

Other moms console me with time. "This time next year, he'll be your little buddy," said one to me today. Nothing makes you aware of life as a span of time more than parenthood. You understand why parents say that decades of their lives go poof.

Whenever I see parents of twins, triplets, or more on TV, someone invariably asks how they managed it, and the response is always the same: they look out at their gaggle with a tired face full of hard memories, and say something to the effect of: time passes. During The Bug's first months, I would watch the clock on TV all night, and it was hard to imagine that eventually it would be 6:00 a.m., that the sun would come up and Mr. Aran would wake. I would repeat to myself what my Lamaze instructor said about labor: "It is pain that is temporary, and it is pain with a purpose." The passing of time was my singular relief.

I've lived this past week like that. Each night I went to sleep knowing that the next day I would feel better, if just a little. And each day I woke with the same pain or worse. The pain is lessened only by searing hot water, and only for a few seconds after the swallow, then I need more. When I lay in bed, I try not to swallow, and the spit builds up in my mouth until I give up and gulp it, and then I lay awake feeling it build up again. The doctor, I know now, was wrong. This is no cold.

So, tomorrow, I will call the doctor. I will go in and take my prescription, and while it is being filled I will buy a head of cabbage. I am almost sure I can't nurse while taking the meds, and I refuse to pump, and it is probably time, anyway. These days, when The Bug pulls away from my breasts, he leaves a ring of teeth marks. I would like to have that occasional bellini or red wine when eating with Celeste and Jason sans regret, and I love my daily coffee. It will mean being stricter with my diet, but also less hunger, and prettier bras!

But still, I cried while nursing The Bug to sleep tonight. This may be our last night together, in that communion. I looked at him hard while he ate, watched his eyes get heavy and then close. I clipped his fingernails while he dozed, an acrobatic move I've mastered while he is still attached to me. I feathered his hair away from his forehead. He is always so hot, coming from his grandparents' room, where he plays hardest, before bed. His face was slightly damp.

This is my body, I whispered to him. It has been given up for you.

posted by Samus @ 8:36 PM