It’s 1 a.m. or it’s 3 a.m. or it’s 9 a.m. or 1 p.m. You’re the only one who can help him. He’s crying and crying and will only stop for food. Your body is the only thing that provides sustenance.
You’re working on establishing a schedule, marking down meals and naps and diapers so you can keep track of progress despite sleep deprivation. You are so tired and so, so happy. You’re somehow the most alert you’ve ever been operating on the least sleep. You used to only wake up before eleven to the smell of coffee and the promise of breakfast. Now, you are immediately aware the moment his breathing changes.
We pack up the car on Saturday morning for an adventure. You strap on a carrying wrap, he loads up the car with the stroller, and the diaper bag, the car seat, the hand sanitizer, and also the sunscreen. You are two of the most prepared parents, thriving postpartum after only five weeks.
We arrive at the farmer’s market, apply the sunscreen, collect the bags, secure the baby, and we’re off. You are determined to take him along for the ride, and you’re starting early. I am in awe of how natural you already are at being a mom.
It’s remarkable how tiny he is in the world. You say he’s already so big, and I can only imagine how small he was on the day he was born. You dance with him in the kitchen, tell him you can’t wait to see who he becomes. We read him books and plan our day around his meals, and it is a profound joy to organize our time around something so sacred. We squeal when he opens his eyes after a nap or wriggles his feet and hands around in his onesie or starts to smile. It is extraordinary to watch him start to exist in the world.
Several of my close friends have become parents in recent years, and I am in awe each time. Every glimpse of my people I see in these little faces is extraordinary. Discovering the ways they are the same and the indications they are different. Every tiny facial expression that I’ve seen a thousand times before but never from them. Laughing when the children are as sassy and adventurous and tender-hearted as their parents. Being an honorary aunt is one of my greatest joys.
After I visit, I drive home to my dog, who I would sacrifice a ridiculous amount of time and resources for, and I wonder how they bear it. How do they hold all the love and anxiety and hope and fear for their little ones, and also remember the last time they ate or whether they like the color blue or to wash the laundry. How do they still find the energy to read at the end of the day, to scour Facebook Marketplace for toys and clothes and surprises, to plan birthday parties full of glitter and whimsy? How do they sleep?
How did my mom show up differently than her mom? How did she stay awake to make the chocolate chip cookies, pack lunches with handwritten notes, sacrifice her time to drive us to soccer practice, and dance practice, and swim practice, and school, and Starbucks? How did she listen to our endless sagas, our hopes and dreams, and still hold space for her own?
How could I ever do this? How could I not?
Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.
