At 2 a.m., the house is silent. No dishes bang in the dishwasher. No clothes spin in the dryer. Few cars speed down the road. Even the air conditioner seems to take a rest at 2 a.m.
The youngest baby has not yet gotten with the program–the program that says Babies Should Sleep All Night Long. When, when will he learn, I have to wonder. Every night, on the dot of 2 a.m., he is awake and shrieking. He’s hungry. He’s not just hungry–he is dying, expiring of hunger, to the point that he will turn into dust if he is not fed instantly.
To keep myself awake when I fed the older children, I’d turn on the television and get lost in its blue glow, all but ignoring the child in front of me. It was a constant struggle to keep my eyes open and NOT be resentful that my sleep was broken.
I don’t watch television while feeding this baby. We sit in the dark together, my arm attempting to trap his little arm. He invariably wiggles it out and bangs…on the chair, on my breast, eventually on my face. As he fills up with milk, the banging turns into touching; he explores my face with his fingers, grabbing and clenching with sharp little nails.
It’s different with this child, perhaps because I’m a tiny bit more mature, or because my body has finally gotten used to the rhythm of a baby’s schedule.
Or maybe it’s because I’m fairly certain that this child will be my last. Only “fairly certain,” you know. I was done having children after the first child, and then after every subsequent child.
And yet, children kept appearing, and I keep on getting up at all hours to feed them…like I’ll need to do in another couple of hours. With no resentment at all.
Remember that at 2 a.m., self.
No resentment at all.
