Awake in the middle of the night, I tell myself: there is no such thing as sleepless nights. In fact, there is no longer such a thing as ‘night’ at all. My day starts at midnight, and ends 24 hours later. It might only be a matter of semantics, but it helps. The sleep adds up that way.
The thing that I’m most starved for is to be able to be a mother and a wife at the same time. Because right now, I can only manage the one that involves beastfeeding. Err.. breastfeeding.
I feel hopelessly droopy, drippy and smelly. My body is doing undignified things. My butt hurts. My boobs hurt. They are gigantic, just in case you were wondering. They stand up like melons. Petrified melons. Don’t even ask me what it’s like to get dressed — every day with great optimism, I retrieve a pre-pregnancy piece of clothing from storage. And every day I have to pack it away again. (Today's dressing mantra: just because you can, doesn't mean you should...)
Then, in the middle of what used to be the night, my son looks up at me, his eyes roll into the back of his head, a single drop of milk rolls down his cheek, and he smiles. I know it’s only gas, but it still makes me melt. I guess my expensive jeans can wait.