Today I sat in the baby's room rocking him to sleep.
The curtains were pulled and it was nearly pitch black. I heard the hum of the sound machine and could see the light from the hall falling as a straight beam then breaking jagged on the bed in the corner of the room. He finally relaxed his little body, two little baby hands resting on one another like a mini-judge, and his breathing fell into a cadence with mine.
In my mind, I was racing. Motherhood and parenthood are exhausting. It never lets up and to top it off I always feel like I'm accomplishing the greatest thing and yet I'm also failing irreversibly. Always.
But mainly at that moment I was frustrated. This is a common feeling for me these days. I wanted time alone. I wanted to do my own thing. I wanted to write, to shower, to do anything!
Sophie was home from school with strep and was intermittently dissolving into a heap of sobs at her throat hurting. The baby is cutting four teeth and for the love of all that is good and wonderful just won't sleep.
But really none of that is it either... I just want to do something. You name it. Run, paint, brush my teeth, talk on the phone, get my life in order.
Beneath his warm little body I could feel my spare tire and the simultaneous love for him and loathing for myself intermingled.
And the idea hit me squarely in the heart. Children are thought of as our seeds that grow and build our family but right now... I am the seed. And like a seed, I was burst open so this life could come out of me. And this seed will never go back the way it was before. Not entirely phyiscally but in so many other ways. My free time, my career, my self interest- were all bust apart the day a new life came under my responsibility.
And all at once it's wonderful and exhausting, thrilling and overwhelming.
And thank God he finally fell asleep.