Taking Time

Weston is a week old today--how can it be that already, I have to count my baby's age in weeks instead of days?

The past week has been...intense. It's so easy to forget what the early postpartum period is like, I think in part because we all like to think of ourselves as rational human beings. We do not like to remember those times when we're unreasonable for no reason, when we're exhilarated one moment and despondent the next, when we snap at the very people who are trying to help us.

It doesn't help that I remember how much more mobile I was with Luke and at an earlier point. When he was six days old, we took him to Target. This time? I spent the sixth day in bed, barely able to roll over without cringing. The thing is, this time, I came out of the birth with far less serious tearing, so you'd think that would translate to a much faster healing time, right? Right. Except that with really bad tearing and lots of stitches come the REALLY GOOD pain meds. So last time, even though my injuries were worse, I felt better sooner because my pain was pretty well managed. This time, I'm getting by on ibuprofen, when I remember to take it, and that's a good thing--I know it is--but man, prescription pain pills made a lot of difference in how I coped with life last time.

So this time, I've been completely reliant on the people around me to take care of Luke, help with Weston, even bring me food and water. It's been a humbling experience. I miss being able to make myself a cup of tea. I miss being able to take a walk around the neighborhood. Most of all, I miss being able to play with and hold and go places with Luke. But I'm trying to be patient, to give myself the time to heal, to remember that in the long run, a week really isn't that long. I'm taking this time to cuddle my baby, to trace the curve of his ear, to study his tiny fingers, to kiss his Buddha cheeks. I'm trying to be patient.