Yesterday was one of those days. You know, the ones you hear about before becoming a parent. Where the baby is screaming uncontrollably for hours and you, as the supposedly all-knowing Mother, are failing because you don’t know why or how to make him more comfortable. Where your biggest accomplishment is managing to get dressed appropriately enough for the repair man to be able to stop by and not feel embarrassed to be witnessing you in your mess of spit up and baby poop. The kind of day where you just are desperately trying to get your baby to calm down, to fall asleep, and then once he does give in for a few minutes of reprieve and you put him down, you feel empty and miss him and are sure you must be crazy.
The dishes did not get done. Nor did the shopping, the cooking, the unpacking or the countless other errands on my list. I did not figure out how to make my baby sleep better or even manage to return the phone call I’d wanted to all day.
And then my husband came home from a much more understandably long day, with actual, measurable accomplishments and asked, “What’d you do today?” like any caring, interested spouse would and he doesn’t understand why this benign questions leaves me in a puddle of tears.
And then, after hours of feeding, rocking, bouncing, and pacifying, the baby falls blissfully asleep in my arms. I soon follow, crawling into bed in the same pajamas from last night that I’ve been wearing all day at an embarrassing 7pm, leaving the dishes and the cooking unfinished, still adorned by all of the sweat, tears, and spit up from the day. A few hours later, when I’m woken up from my deep sleep by the whimpers of a hungry baby, I sit up and see his perfect face. He sees me and a huge grin spreads over his entire being. My heart melts. I’ve never felt so content. When I put him back to sleep, I’m already looking forward to the morning smiles I know I’ll be greeted with.
Yesterday was one of those days.