Day Nine

by Amanda Munday

  I am lying on the couch, alone, with no baby within sight or hearing, and I still can’t sleep. I turn over and around. I try turning off the television sound. I try closing the blinds. I just can’t do it. I can’t fall asleep. I wait in stillness but I can feel that my body wants to move. I start to count in my head. I exhale deeply. Still awake.

  I hear Max walk in the door and greet my mother, so I sit up and see him with a bag of groceries and my mother with the baby, heading to the kitchen. They both look surprised to see me awake. I’m embarrassed to tell them I didn’t sleep. I just lay on the couch with my eyes closed, willing myself to sleep but failing. I’m thankful I can end the charade and watch Max do what he does best: he’s going to cook me a meal. I know he’s back here today to help heal his older sister. When I see him putting away groceries I quietly weep. I know that he wants to help me. He walks over to me and hugs me, then he asks me what’s going on.

  “I can’t sleep!” I sob. “I can’t do it. I can’t sleep. My brain won’t let me. Look at me. I’m trying to go to sleep but here I am sitting on the couch. Who can sleep in the middle of the afternoon? It’s not normal. It’s awake time. I should be at the beach or out for a walk. I need to have a regular life. I can’t sleep now. I need to sleep at night. I’ll wait until then.”

  My brother says, more to my mother than to me, “Um, I’m not sure that is the thought process of a rested mind. You definitely have some kind of baby blues, Amanda. You should have a glass of wine and pass out.” Maybe he’s right. But there is no way I’m willing to jeopardize my breastmilk production, and I’ve been forbidden from pumping and bottle feeding. The baby only settles with my breast anyway.

  This is what a mother is supposed to endure when she has a child, I tell myself. The primary caregiver keeps her child alive at her own expense. That’s what I’ve read in all the books. Drinking wine and feeding the baby formula would mean passing on this endowed duty to someone else because I was unable to handle it. I don’t want to neglect my duties. And I don’t want to die. I don’t think wine is enough to knock these worries out of my head, regardless. I have no clear path to rest and recovery. The concept of wellness has left me entirely.

  After dinner, I find a familiar Sunday night singing-competition show on TV. It doesn’t really matter what the show is. The act of sitting in the living room with my brother, mother, husband, and baby brings me a small sense of ordinariness. I used to do this! I would spend evenings after dinner watching a show in my PJs with the family. I know this life. I will be able to do this again. I’m not dying tonight. The ups and downs of my mood are jarring.

  It’s possible that, like the baby’s jaundice, the worst of our problems have already happened and are on their way to resolution. I’ll say to others later it was hard, but we moved through it and put her needs first and survived the worst of it. Though I still haven’t slept, sitting and watching TV reminds me of the things I used to enjoy. It gives me hope. Yesterday was definitely the hardest day, a culmination of stress and pressure and new family and old family and expectations and physical pain and emotional struggle.

  Other parents are right; these days are long. From here on out, I resolve, I’m going to figure out how to cope with motherhood. I’m going to eat a good meal every day and enjoy television time and this new baby and find the calm I’ve been looking for all week. I should have been writing my plans down the entire time! I need a list. Without one, this urge to do something drastic may creep closer to the surface. I was out of control, like there was an evil inside of me that could harm her. I need to grow out of that mindset quickly.

  It’s time to take control, Amanda.

  I look up to Gordon who has the sleeping baby on his bare chest, while my mother and brother sit silently, watching the TV without conversation. I recite what I wish was true, in hopes of making it actually become real: “I think I’m good for the night. Mom, you and Max should go home and get more sleep. I feel better now. I’m going to try to rest. I feel happier. Really, I’ve got this.”

  I want my mother to go home and leave me to parent by myself. Gordon offers to take the first night shift but I’m excited to watch old episodes of The Bachelorette and surf the internet — my old Sunday-night habits that always relaxed me. I’ll stay up, hold her, and feed her. I’ll find myself again. It doesn’t make sense for both parents to continue with these disrupted ninety-minute sleep stints, where one of us barely recovers just in time for the other to feel awful. I stand up to say goodnight to my Max and my mom, and I lift the baby from Gordon’s arms.

  Once they’ve reluctantly left, I walk around the living room turning down lights, shushing and rocking the baby in what now feels like a routine pattern, and head for the couch. I position a nearby a pillow behind my neck, ensuring I’m in a comfortable seated position for the inevitable couch feedings, and send Gordon upstairs to sleep. I can’t tell if he’s relieved that I’m taking back a little control, or leery but too tired to argue with me. I’m cautiously optimistic that things are looking up.

  “Go to bed,” I say. “The two of us will be fine.”

  June 23, 2014

  DAY SIX. My Amazon order is on its way. From this day on I’m going to recommend that new parents get an Amazon Prime membership before they do anything else. Overnight, during my viewing party of The Bachelorette with the baby, it occurred to me that maybe the reason she isn’t sleeping very long stretches is that she needs a swing. Of course! How stupid was I not to think about that sooner? I did some research first, figuring that 3:00 a.m. was the perfect time to read reviews on the safest, quietest baby swings. And thanks to the magic of the internet (and additional overnight shipping fees), I was able to order the sleep solution to arrive the following afternoon. I also ordered a real baby carrier, a Moby wrap, so we can avoid future handmade-sling-meets-baby-and-midwife falling incidents. I can’t believe I didn’t think to get an infant carrier before the baby arrived. How did I think I was going to get around with this human all day long?

  Amazon’s algorithm also recommended a couple of baby books. BABY BOOKS. Of course. I don’t have to be lost and alone in parenthood! I read every pregnancy book I could find; why didn’t I think about post-labour resources? I added two of the recommended instruction manuals to my cart, and checked out. It’s going to be okay, I tell myself.

  I’m feeling better today. I haven’t cried in twelve hours. Looking down at Fiona, I realize she’s been in the same white onesie for two days. After Rose scolded us for over-dressing her, I’ve been afraid to put the baby in any clothes, so she’s only worn a diaper and this simple onesie. I’m consumed with all the ways she might die in her sleep, the simplest of which is overheating from being wrapped in layers during hot summer nights by her unskilled parents. We don’t have any plain, short-sleeved baby onesies. When I was pregnant, I took the advice of all the baby blogs and bought clothes for a baby three months old and older, because it’s more economical to buy the clothes they will wear longer. “They only stay in newborn sizes for a minute!” I heard in every prenatal class. All of our family and friends took the same advice for my baby shower and brought us larger-size clothing, and it’s only now that I realize we don’t have any newborn baby clothes. Before she arrived I made sure the bookshelves were hung in her room and the art was on the walls and the diaper-changing station was dutifully prepared, but I never thought to double check that I had enough clothes for immediately after she arrived. How could I not notice she only has one newborn onesie? I’m so unprepared to be a mother. Gordon wakes up midmorning, and I give him the bad news.

  “We have to leave the house. We have to find Fiona some extra clothes — she can’t live her life in just one plain white onesie.” How sad that I didn’t think of this before.

  “Okay,” he says. “What’s the plan?”

  I start to lay out our strategy, a coach’s play-by-play before the players hit the field. I sit up straight so I can project my voice and my confidence before I begin.
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  “It looks like we are going to have to leave the house. I’ve weighed the risks, and this is the best of our unfortunate options. If I feed her right now and we wrap her up and you wear her to the store, we will be able to get out and back before she wakes up and needs to feed again. Our goal is a less-than-forty-minute activity. Stretch goal is thirty minutes. My estimates suggest we have exactly one hour from end-of-feed to beginning of new feed. Our team will be prepared to run if need be. With the strategy and tactics that I’ve described, I expect the successful midmorning acquisition of baby onesies.”

  There’s a quiet voice telling me this logic is flawed, but I can silence it easily.

  Thankfully my husband, who typically relents to my requests even if they aren’t the most practical, doesn’t question my plan.

  “Okay,” he says cautiously. “We’ll go for a walk. This is great! I’ve wanted to get outside. I really think the fresh air is going to help you.”

  He walks around preparing everything we need for a short walk to the store, including the homemade baby carrier, diapers, a baby blanket, some rattle toys, a hat, a change of clothes, a pair of sunglasses for me, and her shoes.

  “Should we put sunscreen on her? It’s so bright out today.” He’s moving quickly, energized by the change of scene.

  I’m astounded by the carelessness of his question. Didn’t he hear Rose tell us both that sunscreen is full of chemicals, not to be put anywhere near the baby until she’s nine months old? She’s less than nine days old. The suggestion throws me off.

  “We can’t put sunscreen on her, now or anytime in the next year, babe! I’ll hold a blanket over her as we walk. I can’t believe any parents ever leave the house under these conditions.”

  Gordon looks at me and doesn’t roll his eyes, but I sense he wants to.

  We both change out of the clothes we’ve worn for more than two days. I start talking myself into my plan. We’ll leave the house with all the gear we could possibly need, without sunscreen, of course. We’ll walk down to a busy street in Toronto’s east end and look for baby clothes at the closest possible stores that might sell them.

  Once outside and on our street, the violence of the city noise overtakes me. The traffic sounds are piercing. Why is it so loud out here ? We walk down our small street, and I feel a strong urge to run. We have to speed up this superfluous field trip. But then I look over at Gordon, and he looks happy. I want to stop to take a photo of how happy he looks, but I decide it’s better to not stop moving. So I try to just enjoy the moment: officially Baby’s First Walk. Here we are, walking outside the house. So very regular. It feels otherworldly.

  We walk along the side streets, avoiding the main intersections in our neighbourhood. We come upon a neighbour standing on the edge of his driveway, smoking a cigarette. He smiles when he sees us approaching with the baby.

  “Cross the street now!” I say loudly to Gordon. The man steps backward a few paces. I suddenly have a whole new set of parenting questions, ones that haven’t entered my thought process before: How have I not noticed how much pollution is in the air before? Do they make baby gas masks? Why didn’t I think about the potential hazard of second-hand smoke? What are the odds we were going to have to walk her straight through a cloud of it on her very first outdoor adventure? What else is lurking on this trip? How will I ever keep this tiny human safe?

  At that moment a car approaches and I’m once again consumed with panic. I can’t stop the car from moving toward us, or even slow it down. If it crashes, I won’t have time to get out of the way. The exhaust fumes alone could drown her. Will she even be able to breathe as the car passes us? I hold my breath as the car drives by, hoping she’ll do the same.

  Seemingly forever later we are past the smoking man and the dangerous driver.

  “Gordon, can you please stop for a minute?” My question is steeped in desperation. “I need to check on the baby.” I double check, then triple check that she’s still breathing. In the last six minutes she’s been exposed to cigarette smoke and high--octane gasoline fumes. Twenty minutes ago the only thing she had inhaled was our admiration and my worry.

  I start thinking we should turn back, that our target was too aggressive. But I’m worried Gordon will be furious with me. Does he share my sense that it’s not safe out here? Besides, the baby has only one short-sleeved shirt. I know I can’t just do a full load of laundry with specialized baby soap for one shirt and five cloth diapers every day. We keep going.

  We turn right and head west along the busiest intersection in our neighbourhood. My mind whirls. It’s so dangerously loud. Why are people looking at me like that? I need more space on this sidewalk. Everyone’s moving so slowly. They don’t see what I see.

  We walk by a fair-trade jewellery and gift store that I’ve been in once or twice at most since I’ve lived in this area. It’s not a place I regularly shop for household items.

  “Let’s try this store.” It’s a demand more than a suggestion. “It’s closer than the baby store blocks away.” I don’t wait for Gordon to answer; I’m already through the door. I’m desperate to end this trip.

  A kind-looking woman approaches as we walk through the door, getting too close and saying much too loudly, “Hi there! How can I help you?!”

  “We need clothes for our baby. We don’t have enough newborn clothes for the baby.” I hope she senses my need for her to hurry up.

  “Oh, let me see this little one!” she squeals. Don’t touch her, don’t touch her, don’t touch her. I can’t hear what she says to Gordon, but I hear his response.

  “She’s six days old. We just left the house to find something for her to wear. I guess we weren’t as prepared as we thought we were.” He adds an awkward laugh that makes me cringe. Since when am I unprepared for anything?

  “Oh, let me help you! Of course we’ll find something.” She is friendly and cheery. She takes a quick peek at the baby then starts digging through her racks of clothing, and I scan the store for anything resembling a onesie.

  “Zero to three months … six to eight months … do you want a sleeper? What about a dress?” She’s asking too many questions and not giving enough answers.

  “No. We just need something for her to wear today.” I’m snappy and I’m not sorry. No time for pleasantries when life is on the line.

  “Here, Amanda, look here.” Gordon tries to distract me from shooting judgments at the too-slow store lady. Which is good, because I spot the clock hanging above the cash register and realize we have less than thirty minutes to pay for this, walk home, and get the baby fed. I’m not sure we’re going to make it. My heart rate speeds up. We have to get out of here.

  “Which one of these sets do you like?” Gordon asks me in a casual, browsing-on-a-Sunday-afternoon sort of way. I check the price — $25 for three onesies. That’s affordable, right? Usually I pay $25 for one fast-fashion shirt, so really, it’s a third of the price of adult clothes. I’ve found some luck today. It’s a sign things are improving.

  I pick out a onesie set with colour — I prefer colour to the white options. Bright orange, bright green, and grey. All with cars on front. Gordon mumbles something about them being boys’ shirts. “All clothing is gender neutral,” I clap back. My old activist self hears that my husband is already trying to limit the options available to our daughter. As we are paying for the clothing set, the close-talking woman is still searching for more options.

  “What about this one?” she says.

  “No,” I respond, too quickly, not even looking at whatever it is she’s found. “We’re happy with this. We need to get back home.” This woman seems concerned, worried even. Maybe she knows our time is limited. Maybe she’s judging us for having brought this baby out into the highly polluted neighbourhood.

  As we start walking towards home, Gordon begins his self-congratulation routine.

  “See! We did it! We got what we wanted and the baby is still asleep. Try to calm down a bit and enjoy the walk back.” H
e doesn’t see it. He isn’t counting down the seconds that we have left. He’s just distracted by the bright sounds on the street, I’m sure. That’s why I have to be in charge. I have to consider all the risks.

  We head north. Better to get on the side streets as quickly as possible, away from potential car accidents, smokers, burning tires. Who knows what.

  The outing was flawed from the outset. I ordered a swing from Amazon Prime not eight hours ago, I realize. Why didn’t I just add baby clothes to the purchase? Or one of us could have gone out shopping alone. Or I could’ve emailed or texted one of my family members asking for clothing. I’m exhausted thinking about everything I didn’t do. I haven’t slept more than ninety minutes in a row in six days. This outing took every available resource from me. I need to sit down.

  While we walk the baby starts to cry. She needs to feed. We turn the corner and hurry into our house. At least we’re back home, where we can sit topless together for a meal. I fall asleep holding Fiona and wake up after an hour. I pick up my phone, feeling more like myself. I eat a little bit of food. I realize I haven’t cried once today. It really was just baby blues. I must be as hormonal as my brother said. I decide this is just the way parenthood must work; there are good times and bad times. I hope if we tally up my score at the end of this baby blues incident, we’ll land on more good times than bad.

  June 25, 2014

  DAY EIGHT. It’s been more than a week since I slept for any real amount of time. I remember that during my pregnancy someone mentioned breastfeeding support through a free service called La Leche League. I wrote down somewhere that they would be a great place to go if I ever felt stuck on the breastfeeding front. It occurs to me that they might help me through this fog. Surely someone will help me.

  Calling their support line also allows me to avoid bothering Rose again, who must be tiring of all the attention I need. What I’m looking for now is someone who will tell me pumping is okay. I’ve read all the blog posts about attachment parenting and breastfeeding and the problems early pumping can cause for breast engorgement. If I pump, I’ll be going against the advice of the natural parenting industry.