In recovery

A few weeks ago a friend asked me if I felt physically and emotionally recovered from birth and, without thinking about it, I said no, which was odd because until that point I'd been feeling that I was ready to start trying for another baby. What did I feel like then, she asked. 

Actually I recently started to feel emotionally near to normal again which, no coincidence I'm sure, was almost exactly when sleep improved so that I started to get at least a six hour chunk more nights than not. 

Physically however I feel wrecked. This isn't directly from the birth. That was, well, birth, gruesome and yukky but the right bits stretched in the right way and the bits that didn't do as they should (that pesky placenta!) were dealt with by doctors. But my body was so run down, pummelled by pregnancy and never given the chance to get a full night of restorative sleep, that it has had a litany of minor complaints since. Coughs and colds and fungal things, wheezes and infections and tender tendons, stiffnesses and cramps and aches and things just not being right. Bits creak. I am weary. 

When I was little I remember my parents stretching their joints in the morning, groaning the way grown ups groan, preparing their bodies for the day, and my young elasticy limbs not needing teasing into life like theirs. And I realise the answer to her question, what do I feel like, is that I feel like a parent, like my parents, like every parent. I suspect there is no recovery, just condition management. 

A day off?

We've been ill - nothing serious, a cold or virus making our ears fuzzy and our necks achey and our throats swollen. The baby has been fine but less so the parents. If we were our pre baby selves a good night's sleep, a day off work and a hot toddy would have sorted it. But we're post baby selves and guess what, turns out the parenting doesn't stop. The baby still needs to be fed, kept clean and entertained. She still needs (yes, needs) enthusiastic parents telling her several times a day that she is beautiful and clever and the most wonderful person ever created, reminding her that even if all the container ships in the world were piled high with containers and filled with densely packed love, it wouldn't be a patch on how much we love her.

I cried when Goodynuff Dad said he was ill too. I wanted to be allowed to be ill myself, to have a day where I could be looked after and to have just a short break from the nurturing and the enthusiasm. So I turned to Goodynuff Grandma who looked after all three of us. When, I asked, would I be allowed to be ill myself, to not have to worry about looking after others, to take a teeny tiny day off from the responsibilities of being a mum. Oh how the gods must laugh hearing me ask this just eight months in. Goodynuff Grandma is 61 and turns out she was feeling a little under the weather herself, yet still had to look after us. So I guess the answer is never.




**************************
This reminded me of another blogpost by When you ARE that woman about her own mum in which she says:

"Last time I stayed at my parent's house I wanted to borrow a pair of scissors. I walked to my Mum's room. She was in the loo. I called in and asked her where the scissors were. I had to search carefully for the memory, as it was so commonplace I missed the importance of that non-anecdote, and every other time I've done it. Her personal space, her body, her bedroom, doesn't really exist in the mind of me, her child. I am as boundary-less as a toddler, and my mother, even 33 years on, still can't have a piss in peace. No wonder she went to work." 
Read the whole post here.