During the day, with the chaos of a toddler dominating, I sometimes forget she’s there. Momentarily, rather than, you know, leaving her on the bus. But at night, when my son is asleep, I feed her in complete peace. I relax, no longer having to wonder how long we have before my son comes to distract her. She feeds and, for a while, I think only of her.
I recently started to write about my experience of becoming a mother: the alien sensations of being pregnant for the first time (when ligaments stretched and gas got trapped and sometimes I bled for no reason and everything was unprecedented and felt seismic and completely unfathomable); the frantic consumption of facts and advice in books and online about pregnancy and birth (but, perhaps somewhat naively, absolutely nothing about actual parenting); the gruelling and brutal labour (a post for another day perhaps); the overwhelming torrent of love and fear and complete exhaustion of new motherhood… And then I stopped. Because it all felt so far away, too distant to describe really. I look at my son now, a vibrant, energetic, stubborn whirlwind of almost three, and I can only hazily remember the newborn days filled with vomit (him), sleeplessness (me) and crying (both of us). Without me noticing, the oppression of new motherhood eased into something bearable. Something agonising still, in its intensity, but a weight I could live with and enjoy.
And then everything changed again, when my daughter arrived.