We were up at 4am with Talitha screaming and us tearing our hair out trying to work out why. She wouldn’t latch on to the breast so we got the supplemental nursing system out, poured in an ounce of milk I’d expressed earlier and thankfully the faster flow calmed her down enough for her to feed properly.
I sat feeling sorry for myself because my milk supply has significantly dipped again. But even though he had to go to work and could seriously use the sleep, Laurence sat with me. He listened, he empathised, he longed to help.
The worst part of the night feeds is being alone. I don’t get any of this romanticising about “all those hours when it was just me and my baby”. At best, feeding at some godforsaken hour of the morning is boring. At worst, it’s depressing when I’m not convinced Talitha’s satisfied.
Then he sent me a text around 9am: “Happy anniversary. Happy 2 years. Best of my life.”
Oh man, I’d forgotten it was our anniversary today. Everything is overshadowed by what’s-happening-with-the-baby.
I drank in the significance of what he’d written. Talitha is now 3 months old. For the last year, I’ve been sick, hormonal and often a pain to live with because of my SPD (I don’t ache gracefully) and my shaken identity. I had pregnancy brain then baby brain. He considers the birth the most traumatic event of his life. Our nights have been disturbed, our baby fussy and we don’t know why and the breastfeeding dilemma persistently hangs over us. And yet he considers this year one of the best of his life.
And so do I. This year we’ve dreamed together about our family and future. We’ve struggled, argued out of frustration and forgiven each other. A baby was made with our love. Every day we marvel at smiles, milestones met, a human life begun.
And over Cornish fish last Wednesday, meeting our own milestone by leaving the baby with her grandparents for 2 whole hours, we remembered that we still quite like each other.
So I agree. Best of my life.
Soppy post done.