It's Friday morning and I'm sitting at my desk, drinking a cup of coffee, and watching Greg try to figure out what Veronica wants. I nursed her half an hour ago so we don't think it's that. He's been holding her on his lap while he checks his email but she continues to squirm and fuss. He checked her diaper. It was wet. He changed it. She's still squirmy and fussy (albeit adorably so). He holds her up against his shoulder. It works for a minute. Then she coughs and lets out a cry, squirms some more. He props her up against his knees. Still no good. He puts her in the bouncer chair. She lasts about 3 minutes. He's trying the swing now.
This is how we spend our mornings.
And soon (come Monday when he goes back to work) I'll be doing this alone. Gone are the days of languid coffee drinking and Internet scouring. Gone are long showers and meditation on the deck. There's hardly time to wash the dishes and tidy up the house. I keep missing phone calls because I'm busy with V and then when I finally get around to returning them I only get friend's voicemails. It's summer time finally and all I want to do is sit outside on a patio somewhere with friends, drinking cocktails. All I want to do is spend a day at the lake, lying in the sun, swimming in the cool water.
I keep reminding myself that things won't always be this way, that this is the hardest part -- these first few weeks, these first few months. There will be other summers and besides, I've already spent every summer my whole life drinking cocktails and going swimming.
And make no mistake, I'm still enchanted with Veronica. I'm still soaking up the minutes and hours I get to spend with her. I still spend inordinate amounts of time just gazing at her, running my fingers across her downy, little neck.
There is this very real sense of a newly emerging self. Every day I feel that I say goodbye to more parts of myself and embrace my new role as a mother.
Last night I finally got out of the house for a bit and took a walk. It's either been too hot (heat indexes in the 100s this week) or too rainy or I've been too sore (no one quite tells you about the physical ramifications of giving birth) to do much. But last night Greg and I put V in the stroller and walked to the square. I saw Greg off to his martial arts class and then V and I continued to stroll down Lincoln Ave.
It was only my second time taking her out in the stroller. She seems to prefer the wrap to the stroller but I thought it might be too hot to strap her to me. When we took her out in the stroller for the first time the other day she lasted about 7 minutes before she started wailing so this time I packed the wrap as a back up.
It was so nice to be out of the house, to be walking, to feel like I was part of the city, part of summer. We walked around Welles Park, watching kids playing baseball and eating ice cream. It was early evening and the heat had begun to lift. V woke up on and off and I maneuvered the stroller carefully over the cracks in the sidewalk, keeping a constant watch on her mood.
I would have done another loop around Welles or headed over to Horner Park but I could tell that she was beginning to stir so I headed back up Western and into the neighborhood. Just as I crossed onto Wilson she began wailing and suddenly there I was: New mom of a crying 2 week old. I think hearing my daughter cry makes me more uncomfortable than anything I've ever experienced in life. I hurriedly put on the wrap and gently lifted V out of the stroller, tucking her in against my chest.
We walked home that way. V still crying (but a little less), me holding her securely against me with one hand and pushing the stroller with the other, both of us sweating, and me murmuring over and over to her that we were almost home, almost home, almost home.
As we walked I thought about the millions of women who have been in my exact place before. And I think that was the only thing that kept me from crying myself.
