Yesterday was one of those days. Frustration began from the first moment, finding the dish washer still waiting to be started, full of soured baby bottles. Check for sippy cups: also all used. Discovered one clean cup with a straw, this will do, then discover the baby's filtered water is empty. Cold milk. Through a straw. She can take it. All the while she cries from her crib, "Mom! Don't you hear me? I'm awake. I did so good and slept 8 hours, and I'm so hungry now! Please feed me? Why aren't you coming?"
I've been awake for two minutes. Hair in my eyes, plaque in my teeth, undressed, hungry, and desperately needing a potty break, I rush in to let my nine-month-old daughter know that her cries are not in vain. I hear her. I always hear her. I hear her every moment of my day. Even when she hasn't said a word, I hear her needs echoing around my consciousness. It doesn't turn off. I won't allow it.
Famished, she dives into her breakfast, and cries with each breath. She shouldn't have to work this hard first thing in the morning. Cold milk. Through a straw. Every other sip pours down her bib. Necessary calories soaking into a cotton knit kitten. Each mouthful rejected makes me sink a little lower, knowing my moment of neglect, my refusal to take a moment to wash a bottle and warm the milk is going to make for a very unhappy morning. She finishes the bottle with a heart-wrenching scream, as if the milk was snatched away from her. Knowing she only drank half of her usual and necessary breakfast, I reach for the snacks. Freeze-dried fruit. Pureed fruit. Cereal bites. Crackers. Also considering the amount she slept the last few days, I realize I treated this growth spurt with complete neglect.
Eventually she begins lunging for toys instead of food. Sweet relief, we did it. Forty minutes later, hair uncombed, still undressed, plaque still in place, I finally get my potty break. Mommy disappears into the bathroom... the world must be over! I hurry the process as much as I can (all moms know we actually have no power over this, we just hope someday we might), wash my hands and rush back out, to find my child's sweet face sodden with tears. Red eyes implore me to fill the hurt with love, and we wrestle a couple teething tablets under her tongue, and snuggle.
This is the first hour of my day. The rest of the hours were not unsimilar. At some point I had breakfast, and rediscovered the power of good hygiene, located clean clothes. Somewhere in between it all I even found a free moment to let myself cry.
When my husband returned home I melted into his arms, told him about my struggles, inadequacies, insecurities, annoyances, frustrations, how we giggled and played, explored, exercised, discovered, tasted, laughed, learned the dog's name, daddy's name, and even took her first independent steps holding onto the couch, without mommy. I smiled through my tears, laughed between sobs. My heart swelled.
This was my day. A day to try my patience. A day to test my strength. Knowing at any moment I could leave this infant alone to cry in her crib, and choosing to rock and sing instead. It was a day to choose my daughter over myself. It was a day to rediscover the love of a mother.
