Sleep, and music for the very young

Squeaky's got me spoiled. She sleeps five- and six-hour stretches so regularly that I've come to rely on them, until BAM! Two hours was enough for her last night! And I'm left with debilitating fatigue for the rest of the day, and the next.

I can't complain. Like my pregnancy, I've been so, so lucky with this Motherhood racket, especially when it comes to Squeaky and sleep. 

Meanwhile, I'm thinking I need to track down a few lullaby CDs. I visited my friend and her baby on Wednesday, who had instrumental lullabies playing while her baby took a nap. They were so soothing, they almost made me fall asleep! So yesterday I tried out Squeaky's baby Beatles CD, but I found it had a little too much tinny noise to send me off to sleep. Squeaky too would only doze for a couple of minutes at a time (her new favourite trick). We have a couple of other albums - choruses of kids singing silly songs and the like, but I prefer the instrumental stuff and Squeaky's too young to know she's supposed to like the sound of kids singing. I've got a ton of cello recordings, and she seems to like those. Any recommendations out there for excellent baby background noise?

Naked

In all the reading I've done about new motherhood, breastfeeding and the life changes that come about when a baby joins your household, there was one thing missing from the litany of nap-when-you-can new-mom tips. That is: just how much time you will spend naked.

Squeaky feeds every three hours or so during the day, for between 20 and 40 minutes each time. Between feedings, she'll nap, and so will I. So I don't get dressed. I wear underwear and a nursing bra, most often with the snaps undone.

Some times she feeds every hour in the evening, which leaves even less time between feedings to get dressed. So why bother?

And at night, I was never comfortable in pyjamas, so it's naked-to-bed for me.

All this to say, I only get dressed to leave the house. If there are any Peeping Toms in this small town, I hope they're not into stretchmarked bellies and leaky breasts.

Six long weeks

That's how long I've been instructed to avoid intercourse following the birth of my daughter last month.

"I'm not worried about me," Man told me months ago while discussing the postpartum reality. "I just don't think you can last that long."

He may be right.

I almost feel I'm betraying all of womanhood, or at least all the new-mom guidebook authors out there by admitting that, at three weeks postpartum, I can't wait to have sex!

And I've felt this way for the past two and a half weeks. That's right, folks, mere days after getting home from the hospital, I was thinking about Man's body in all kinds of ways I never expected to so soon after giving birth to his daughter. I couldn't quite imagine taking the fantasy further, because oh the stitches!, but there was a definite...tingle.

We've had a few make-out sessions already, and it's awesome. Despite our newly-collicky baby (yeah. No fun.) and my still squishy belly, I'm grateful for this one bit of postpartum life that hasn't been by the book.

I ought to be napping

It's really hard. When she's sleeping, I want her awake. When she's awake, I just want her to go to sleep. I'm afraid I don't talk to her enough, hold her enough, wear her enough, bathe her enough, feed her enough, play with her enough, sing to her enough, change her diaper enough...  She's two weeks old. Two weeks, and the farthest we've been separated by has been about 35 ft - the distance from her bassinet to the garbage box down the lane. I also made two trips to the woodshed, but that was only a 20-ft separation.

Already there are things I miss. I miss sleeping soundly. I miss snoogling with her father. I miss our uninterrupted suppers. I miss jumping in the car and going to the Next Big Town at a moment's notice. I miss not having to plan my showers around a sleeping baby, or a fussy baby. I miss having two arms free. I miss my stretch-mark-free belly. I miss my breasts as my own. I miss my independence. I miss all my fantasies about parenthood because now that it's here, it's so much harder than I imagined.

And so, I feel guilty. Guilty for doubting my parenting. Guilty for doubting my love for this perfect little girl who is so SO beautiful she takes my breath away. (Just thinking about her takes my breath away), and even now as I relish these moments of quiet, I want her to wake up so desperately, because my arms ache for her. And then I hear her stir, and I wish her back to sleep because I haven't had a nap yet and the supper dishes are still unwashed, and then I feel guilty for that. I feel guilty for resenting her father's work schedule. I feel guilty for not welcoming my partner's parents as readily as I do my own. I feel guilty for the stack of birth notices still unmailed, for the coursework I've been neglecting, for the hours I spent watching The Mom Show and Friends instead of lighting the fire and sweeping the kitchen. And even though I know I'm a danger to my own mind when I haven't slept, I'm still up, still writing, still checking on her bassinet to make sure she's warm enough, not too hot, still breathing, still sleeping, not hungry and growing enough.

It's a mental and physical tug-of-war between my wants and needs, and her needs. It is exhausting.

I imagine the women who Do It All must have cleaning services, nannies and zero financial worries. They must also be even more organized than me, and I had casseroles in the freezer. They are probably living in finished houses, too.