While It Lasts



 I put on pants today for the first time this week and trek the two blocks to a neighborhood café. My daughter is cocooned in a new-fangled wrap, nestled beneath my chin; I rest my nose in her reddish hair and breathe in the delicious scent of her head with every inhale.  The din of the café lulls her eyelids closed and I shift my weight from hip to hip in our new rhythm. I’m scanning the chalkboard menu as I debate whether to order the enormous banana muffin or the veggie wrap. When was the last time you ate a vegetable? Get the wrap! I will most definitely order the muffin.
I’m nearing the front of the line when an elderly woman in front of me turns and sees the baby strapped to my chest. She coos in delight as we exchange the details that are by now tattooed on my heart.   
             Six weeks.     
Yes, she’s a girl.    
Zoe Jane.   
No, not sleeping through the night yet.

             And then I steel myself for what I know she will say. What they all say: Enjoy every minute; it goes by so fast. I wince and muster a smile that can’t quite reach my eyes. I’m trying, I offer unconvincingly, but the words reverberate in my ears on the walk home and guilt worms its way back into my shoulders.
                I open the front door and an audible groan escapes. The scent of unwashed baby bottles hovers in the air near a stack of empty takeout containers that are probably not recyclable. I’m sorry, Earth. The couch boasts a week’s worth of laundry that even the dog knows will never be folded. I’m a freaking cliché.
                A glance at the clock tells me I have 17 minutes before she will wake. I cradle her head with one hand and open a book with another, but the words dance across the page. I close my eyes only to jerk awake moments later and frantically listen for sounds of her breathing. Who made up this advice to sleep when the baby sleeps?!
                She rouses on schedule and whimpers as I search for her propping pillow, a burp cloth, and a nipple shield. When did nipple shield become part of my vocabulary?  She roots around as I replay the doctor’s orders: Just breathe, you have to relax. Her fussing morphs into impatient wails and it’s too late now. She screams in her baby seat as I warm a bottle and fat tears drip onto my cheeks. I’m sorry, I whisper. I’ll try harder next time.  For the next few hours we bounce around the tiny square living room as I read her Goodnight Moon and she chews on her fists and the minutes painstakingly saunter from one to the next.
           I love her, I love her, I love her. But only in the thunder of a scalding shower can I cry openly in a body I no longer recognize and ask out loud, Is it supposed to be this hard?
……………..
           
     I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Los Angeles on a weekend trip I’ve taken by myself. I can do that now.  Somewhere amidst the hundreds of feedings and diaper changes, a heaviness dissipated into the atmosphere and I recognized my soul again. There you are. The struggles, the fatigue, and the self-doubt  evolved from my reality to the war stories and anecdotes I share with other mothers and Uber drivers.
                When I arrive home in a few days, my children will be waiting for me and we will go to the park and build Legos and I will intervene when they fight and we will all sleep through the night(ish). They can still count their ages using only one hand, but their warm little bodies are too large to be strapped to mine. Kisses are no longer a remedy for skinned knees, and cuddles are spontaneous, never a given.
                A woman walks into the shop where I write and sip my tea, and I know her. I know the dark circles under her eyes and the elastic pants and the knit cap poking out from her chest. I stare longingly at the tiny blue socks as she walks by, and I tell her how much I adore her gorgeous baby. We share the details we each know so well, and before my mind has caught up to my heart, I blurt, It goes so fast; try to enjoy it while it lasts!