Autopilot kicked in. I heard a noise through the monitor. Tossing the blankets aside, I zombied myself down the hallway. How many times had I done this already? How many more nighttime shuffles were ahead? I reached my crying baby, picked him up and walked on unsteady legs to the glider rocking chair. He latched on quickly and I tried to stay awake while he fed.
Was Corbin six or eight weeks old at the time? I don’t remember the day, only the moment. Cracks in the very foundation of my being were widening. I recall one thought: I can’t do this.
Are we rock walls that begin to chip and fracture over time, or are we made up of multiple chips and fractures that come together to form a united rock wall front? I believe I will always remember the moment that I realized solitude was something I would have to steal, plan for, fight for and strategize to attain.
The culture I lived in before children may not have been consequence-free but it was one in which I took being on my own for granted. This new culture, the post-children family culture, is not one where being a hermit is an option.
I was 35 years old and I had no idea that having children would sometimes feel suffocating both because I love them so very much and because they are always pulling at my skirt. I had no clue that up to and including the day I gave birth that my time was mine alone and that the first day of my child’s life would bring with it a craving for time and space.
I had at one time perceived myself to be a social animal, a person who needed people around her. Now, I find that being alone is comforting, rejuvenating and necessary to do that vital repair work on my rock wall. I find the warm cluster of family, my three boys, is almost all of the companionship that I need.
Perhaps in time when my sons need me less, when my job of mother is finished, I will see glimpses of the old culture. But right now, I make the most of the time I do have on my own. I take myself out for morning coffee on a Saturday so I can disengage from my family purposely. In so doing, I am able to re-engage later with a lighter heart and a stronger sense of love for myself and for my boys.
_____
As I travelled the 20 feet down hallway to my first-born son’s bedroom, I questioned everything about my choice to become a mother. I questioned my intuition, my ability to make good choices for his health and well being, and my ability to rise to the challenges presented by motherhood.
And then I reached him.
And despite my fatigue I was successful one more time in feeding him and getting him back to sleep. In the morning, I was greeted with a smile that grabbed at my very soul. A smile that infused me with confidence and peace of mind.
This very small person — who is the reason why I have so little time to myself — is somehow also the one who makes it all more than OK. He reminds me that whatever cracks and fissures break open or widen in the middle of the night, they can always be patched up in the daylight.
Photo Credit
“pretty flowers” greenchartreuse @ flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
Recent Christine Shaw Roome Articles:
- Becoming Me
- An Award for Being Herself
- World's Smallest Book
- Giving up My Birthday for Water
- International Women's Day 2012: Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures.
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