1:20am. I stare at my precious baby boy as he chews on my right nipple for the dozenth time since 11:30am. He’s been up – whining, fussing, hollering, pooping, sucking – and can’t seem to get enough milk. His appetite is insatiable, thank God; at 3 weeks tomorrow this is his very first growth spurt. And all I can do is cry.
Seriously. I am writing this with boogers running down my nose while baby feeds on me like I am the last gallon of leche on Earth. My eyes are so blurry I don’t know how good this essay is going to be; I can’t read most of what I am writing and I am having trouble concentrating as I must blow my nose so Evan isn’t covered in my sad, emotional snot.
What is this? I think. No, it’s not postpartum depression. It’s just new motherhood. That’s sleep deprivation, cabin fever, sleep deprivation, sore nipples, breast feeding on demand, burps and spit up, the fear that baby boy will choke in his sleep on said spit up, a growth spurt that is leading Evan to treat my nipples and areolas like they are his personal slaves…oh, did I mention sleep deprivation?
Therefore, I am sobbing while my precious little boy enjoys his last supper of the night before he dozes off to sleep (hopefully) – until he wakes up in 2 hours to eat again.
Cause new motherhood is hard. Breastfeeding is challenging. And, shit, I need some sleep, a girls night, and a fucking drink. (I’ve been dreaming of Bacardi Coconut, Moscow Mule’s, Ginger Beer and Spiced Red Wine.)
Luckily, tomorrow (actually, it’s today) is another day. So I wipe my tears, blow my nose and take care of my little boy. Evan is worth this and more. I know this and feel this in my core even on nights like tonight when I am at my wits end.
1:45am now. Evan is resting peacefully and innocently in my arms now.
“Off to bed you go, my little. Mami’s got you,” I whisper in his sweet baby ears that are eerily identical to mins.
Yes, Mami’s got you, Evan. Always. Even if it means weeping away the exhaustion and sacrifice. Even when you’re gnawing my nipples off inch by inch.