It seems that I’ve developed a bit of an eye twitch. Today is
Thursday, and I am still tired. The twitch began its involuntary trickery with
my left eyeball early Tuesday morning.
My child is still not letting me sleep. He has a dependency on my
breast. As in, he won’t sleep. Unless it’s in his mouth. All night long. He is sick this week, so I’m
too weak and tired to fight him off, which means that when I’m tossing and
turning, and not sleeping and exasperatedly asking my husband what time it is
in the middle of the night, I find myself secretly hoping it’s closer to the
6:00 am wake up time than not. In the past I’d pray it was closer to midnight,
so I’d have a chance to sneak in a few winks. These days, I know there’s no
chance at sleeping, so I just hope it’s later. It’s always earlier. 1:00 am or
so. The twitch, as my good friend Dr. Google tells me, is a sign of chronic
sleep deprivation and stress. Imagine that! A year of sleep deprivation is all
it takes, my friends, until your physical appearance takes on the inner
insanity and craziness one feels internally due to a lack of quality z’s.
So
yesterday, I took a ‘me’ day. Monday, my head was killing with a migraine.
Tuesday, the eye twitched. Wednesday, I handed off the kiddo to my in-laws
without revealing my evil sinister plot of staying home in my pajamas, eating
ice cream in bed, and SLEEPING. Which I fulfilled. I slept from 7:15-11:30 am.
I hadn't looked at a time that late on my cellphone since I was gestating the
little monster. I woke up, inhaled a Trader Joe’s salad, followed it up with
some of my husband’s stashed mint chocolate chip ice cream, (it was the least
I could do, seeing as how he gobbled up 50% of my chocolate stash I thought I had
so cunningly hid on the bookshelf in the living room), and laid back down in
bed for another hour or two. Sprawled, diagonally, even. The sleep was
heavenly, but I did not wake up feeling like a miracle took place. Fully
rested, it seems, will take more than one day of playing hooky. I think it was
enough energy, however, to make it through the next day. The next week. Keep on
trucking. But as soon as my husband and son walked through the front door of
our apartment yesterday evening, the twitch came back. And another sleepless
boob stolen night awaited me. So the twitch is in even more full force today.
I feel like a creep. Who does that? Twitches their eye? I
wish I could turn it off. But it refuses.
I love my kid. He’s my everything. But you guys already know
that. Or at least anyone who reads this blog, follows me on Facebook or Instagram
does. It’s all I ever post about. Or take photos of. It makes me feel really
boring. But let’s face it, the kiddo’s cuter than me. And he’s more interesting
(at least to me) than griping about boredom at work or my lack of social life.
I can’t believe it’s already been a year. He turns one in 18 days. I really don’t
know how I’ll survive the process of weaning from breastfeeding. The kid’s
absolutely insane. He won’t sleep unless my breast is suctioned in his mouth.
Not feeding, not drinking, just suctioning, or pinching. Like one of those plecostomus fish. Holding it hostage.
Whining and crying if I dare remove myself to try and get some sleep. Another
cool trick he’s taken up recently? Fingering my belly button. Have you ever had
to bat away persistent tiny claws, hellbent on digging and scraping in your
belly button? It’s absolutely terrifying. But is it worse than ‘changing the
radio dial’? (aka titty twisting the nipple not in his mouth)? I don’t know.
Both really, really suck. But it keeps him quiet and subdued. My husband doesn't
always get it. He thinks the kiddo would need a bottle, and I’m just
complaining about our son’s never ending appetite for milk and how tired I am. But the kid is not
hungry. He is not even drinking! He’s just an asshole. But I love him. God how am I going to do this.
But it’s time. My body is saying it’s time. My supply is going extinct. My eye
is twitching. My body is changing. So, sorry, little guy, but your whole milk
diet starts today.
My hope is that I publish this post today, and can look back
on it 4-6 weeks from now with a deep sigh of relief. A feeling of victor and
accomplishment. The end of the road. The light at the end of the tunnel. We
will all sleep through the night like restful little babies. My breasts will
once again belong to me, instead of a mean, twisting and break dancing, masochist.
In addition to the goblin turning one in a couple weeks, I’ll
celebrate my second mother’s day as a mom. The first, of course, being day 3 of
induction, day 1 of his life. This year, we’ll host a Yo Gabba Gabba themed birthday
party, as an excuse to give the boob sucker toys and cake. A couple weeks
later, I’ll turn 32. That’s insane to believe, as I don’t ever recall turning
31. I think I was hiding in my in-laws living room with a tomato faced
screaming alien, while the rest of the family ate BBQ. But I’m not sure. I
just remember feeling very sad and invisible and not knowing what the hell to do. The last time I celebrated my
birthday, I was hungover, freshly 30, on an airplane from Minneapolis to
Chicago, following a weekend with my close pals in the Twin Cities. It was a
fun weekend, sure not to be topped within the next decade. This year, I’ll be
content sleeping. Maybe dancing. But that may be asking too much. Evening
babysitters are hard to come by, especially when the usual round of volunteers
would be guests at said night out.
Another aspect of craziness is that I always envisioned 32
being the designated mark of an adult or benchmark of ‘old’ or responsibility.
Reason being, my mom gave birth to me when she was 32. So I always thought the
years prior, (despite her having already been a mother since the age of 17),
meant that that was her life, her time to experience adulthood without the
heaviness and finality of being a grown up, grown up. And here I am, now. 32,
just around the corner.
Realizing nothing is different, yet everything’s
changed.
I’m married. A mother. Working a full-time job, downtown Chicago. A car
owner. Wanting nothing more than to own my own home. Looks like I bought into
the game of domestication. Settling down. I always thought I’d be a wild one,
free spirit. Doing things differently. Chasing attention, fame even, something
somewhere off the beaten path. Proving everyone and everything wrong – and right.
But I’m here. Where I’m at. And I’m pleased. I’m happy. I’m proud. And just so, so, tired.
I don’t want an eye twitch. I really don’t. But if it’s the
trade-off for having bred and raised a kooky, cute kid, I’ll grin and bear it.
The kid finally got a tooth. One. Everyone kept saying, 'oh, he still doesn't
have a tooth? Just wait, when he gets one, they’ll all pop in at once.' Nope.
Not the case. But that’s ok, I like his tooth. We named it Bobby. I only kind
of feel it on my breast. Thanks, Bobby.
I’m at work right now. And I've had a mug of iced coffee.
And a mandarin for breakfast. And I've done all the work that I can without
input from others at the moment. It’s a real struggle, on days of corporate
hostage, when I know there’s a million household errands that need to be
completed, or a snug, warm bed waiting for me just a 45 minute train ride away.
I wish I had some sort of warm, meaningful theme or message
to tie this post together. A conclusion. But I’m learning more and more, each
and every day, that parenthood, adulthood, whatever this game is – it doesn't
have a start and finish line. There is no feel-good lesson to have learned,
like in some 30 minute sitcom, at the end. It just is. And keeps going. And you
either have the strength to keep going, stay positive, or you don’t. but it
doesn't define you. So I guess I shouldn't feel too badly for not having some
enlightening boom factor to wrap up this post, either. But I do miss writing.
It still comes naturally. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to come home and chase
the passion. That is, when I’m not chasing a 20+ pound goblin around. Til then, here’s to hoping my next post is a
victory cheer. The end of an era. The freedom of my breasts. The independence of the nips. Hooray for boobies. Ok, you get the
picture. Til then. . .
No comments:
Post a Comment