If you are one of those mamas feeling fully touched-out, whose arm permanently and painfully locks into a 90 degree angle at the elbow, whose hips ache from the constant bounce-sway-shift in just that perfect way that keeps the baby asleep (which no one else can seem to perfect), who rocks in the dark of night with a bladder about to burst because at least it keeps the poor kiddo from wailing another 90 minutes: I see you. My elbow, hips, and bladder ache for you. And it’s okay for you to not love what you’re doing right now.
You will hear it from everyone: “You’re going to miss these days.” And you’re thinking, no, I won’t. You hear moms talk about how they actually kind of like when their sick kid has to stay home and snuggle, because it’s the only time they get those cuddles any longer. And you’re thinking, oh man, a sick kid basically doubles the amount of time I’m required to bounce, rock, hold, and pat at quarter past I might collapse o’clock. You see grandmas give you The Look. You know, that sort of misty, sparkly eyed far-away stare that tells you they wish they could hold a baby again, and you internally scream “IF YOU ASK I WILL GIVE YOU MINE FOR FREE.”
Please, mama. Please, don’t take that guilt on top of your exhaustion. It’s hard enough to do the life-absorbing work of keeping a tiny, fully dependent human alive. But like you probably can feel, it’s doubly hard when people keep telling you to enjoy something that you simply can’t enjoy – not because it’s not good and worthwhile, but because you have to do it absolutely all the time, without pause, without even adequate sleep, without the space in your brain to appreciate it. You do it because it must be done. You’re doing great. You don’t have to savor the moments. You just have to keep going.
Three years ago, my colicky, refluxy baby demanded to be held just so on my forearm any waking moment. At night, she demanded constant movement. She wanted my arms, she wanted to bounce, and she wanted to be moving – even while she tried to nurse. Every part of my body ached and throbbed. I was desperate to let someone else hold her, but I felt too ashamed to admit that I needed a break.
Plus, if you thought she was fussy when I held her, you should have heard her when someone who wasn’t me held her.
This weekend, that same baby of mine got sick. She’s a big girl now, living up to her nickname of Wiggles with her constant running, climbing, bouncing, and laughing. She hardly lets me hold her any more, because being held means not moving. When a fever caught her, her wiggles got diluted. At bedtime, when she usually jumps on the bed and finds a million reasons to not get tucked in yet, she made a request I haven’t heard in a long time: “Me just wock for a minute, Mom?”
She wanted to sit in her rocking chair, the site of my late-night torment, and have me rock her to sleep.
In complete honesty, I can tell you: we did, and it was kind of nice. She’s too big for my arms now, but she still wanted to press her check against my chest. Her hands were cold, so she held mine. I sang her songs, we rocked, and after a reasonably long while, I tucked her into her bed.
As it turns out, many things can be true at once. It’s true that it is an honor to be the one who can care for my child and give her the safety and security of my arms. It’s true that when my Wiggler was wee, I wanted nothing more than to not have to hold her for, like, one day. It’s even truer that after a few years, being able to hold her and comfort her in an old, familiar way felt meaningful and right. It’s even more true that I will never, ever tell you how much you’ll miss these times when they’re done. Because lots of things can be true, and their truth can change depending on where we sit (and, admittedly, at what time of the night).
Don’t hear me say that you’ll miss these moments someday. You might not. But do hear me say that you’re doing a great job. And also maybe take a note that motherhood changes. The things that exhaust you now as a parent might become a quiet joy at another stage. But you can’t know that now. All you can know is the baby in your arms right now. So love her as she is, right now, without the guilt of possibly missing it in the future. You can’t know that now. Find the things about parenting right now that give you joy, that help you see that you’re doing great, that you can look back on fondly another time. Maybe it’s rocking, maybe not. You’ll figure it out. Because you’re doing great.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go rock my preschooler again. You would hardly believe how cuddly and sweet she is right now. It’s a bummer that she’s sick, but I can help. Rocking her to sleep does us both good.
