“The miracle of sleep is still more important to me than the miracle of life” said a friend earlier today.
I have fond memories of sleep. It’s been a while. Last night the Miracle of Life named Tariq woke up 15 times. Sometimes only 20 minutes apart. The boundaries between dream reality and the reality of a screaming baby in the bedroom become thin at times like these.
I’ve come to realise that guilt is an amazingly huge and silent part of motherhood. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty for wishing for the freedom of pre-miracle days, guilty if I eat onions or chocolates or strawberries (the baby gets wind), guilty for every glass of wine I drink, guilty because I get angry at a totally dependent and tiny little baby in the middle of the night, guilty because I don’t get up immediately and hover between sleep and waking wishing he would just go away. Guilt, however, is a fairly useless thing in the bigger scheme of things. It does not make a better person of me for experiencing it. Nor does it make me any more evil or useless than I may already be. It just wastes the little energy I have left. Sometimes I even feel guilty for wishing that I could write about things other than the baby all the time. Motherhood: The all consuming change.
One of the main sources of maternal guilt is the vast collection of baby magazines and books that form the cornerstone of parental reading material. No more trashy fiction, serious fiction or non-fiction. No. The only reading material any worthwhile mother consumes go by names such as ‘Ons Baba’, ‘Fit Pregnancy’ and ‘Sister Lillian’s Baby Companion’. Don’t get me wrong, Sister Lillian is a saint and I’m sure the journalists that pen the articles in ‘Ons Baba’ all love their kids. But life is not like the magazines and even when they condescendingly tell you that it gets tough and that you may be suffering of postnatal depression if you have thoughts of harming yourself and your baby, it doesn’t help for the guilt. I have a nauseating tendency of channelling my guilt into anger. This does not help either. God help the editor of ‘Ons Baba’ if ever I meet her.
So for now I save my guilt up for bad poetry and dreams that drench up all the times I have carried my load of guilt into my relationships. What fun I have at night. The miracle of my life is a mess at times. But then I remind myself that the joy still outweighs the guilt. And that the hope I have outweighs the sum of them both.
I have fond memories of sleep. It’s been a while. Last night the Miracle of Life named Tariq woke up 15 times. Sometimes only 20 minutes apart. The boundaries between dream reality and the reality of a screaming baby in the bedroom become thin at times like these.
I’ve come to realise that guilt is an amazingly huge and silent part of motherhood. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty for wishing for the freedom of pre-miracle days, guilty if I eat onions or chocolates or strawberries (the baby gets wind), guilty for every glass of wine I drink, guilty because I get angry at a totally dependent and tiny little baby in the middle of the night, guilty because I don’t get up immediately and hover between sleep and waking wishing he would just go away. Guilt, however, is a fairly useless thing in the bigger scheme of things. It does not make a better person of me for experiencing it. Nor does it make me any more evil or useless than I may already be. It just wastes the little energy I have left. Sometimes I even feel guilty for wishing that I could write about things other than the baby all the time. Motherhood: The all consuming change.
One of the main sources of maternal guilt is the vast collection of baby magazines and books that form the cornerstone of parental reading material. No more trashy fiction, serious fiction or non-fiction. No. The only reading material any worthwhile mother consumes go by names such as ‘Ons Baba’, ‘Fit Pregnancy’ and ‘Sister Lillian’s Baby Companion’. Don’t get me wrong, Sister Lillian is a saint and I’m sure the journalists that pen the articles in ‘Ons Baba’ all love their kids. But life is not like the magazines and even when they condescendingly tell you that it gets tough and that you may be suffering of postnatal depression if you have thoughts of harming yourself and your baby, it doesn’t help for the guilt. I have a nauseating tendency of channelling my guilt into anger. This does not help either. God help the editor of ‘Ons Baba’ if ever I meet her.
So for now I save my guilt up for bad poetry and dreams that drench up all the times I have carried my load of guilt into my relationships. What fun I have at night. The miracle of my life is a mess at times. But then I remind myself that the joy still outweighs the guilt. And that the hope I have outweighs the sum of them both.
posted by lucy fern @ 12:21 PM
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