I am writing this in a coffee shop which I fled to a few minutes ago. I had been at home with Robin since Sunday afternoon and felt like I was losing my marbles. She is still unwell and I didn’t dare take her out in the cold for fear of her health getting worse. I’ve spent the past 48 hours cradling her (all 10kgs of her), playing with her, pulling faces to make her laugh, wiping her face and hands, changing her bib every couple of hours, disinfecting her toys, washing everything she dribbled over and trying, without success, to put her to sleep. My body is a wreck from carryig her all the time, my nerves are frazzled and I look like death. I miss Maia and I’m snapping at the husband just because I know I can get away with it. I’m not happy.
That’s why I had to grab the car keys and drive away somewhere I couldn’t hear babies crying and where nobody would talk to me (no mean feat on this island).
And now that I have sipped on my tea, written a bit and taken some really deep breaths, I find myself thinking about those mothers who do not have anyone to keep the baby so they can leave the house for an hour to let off steam. I’m thinking of those parents whose children are seriously ill or are disabled. I am thinking of those parents who have lost their little ones and who would gladly spend the rest of their lives at home if it meant being able to hold their babies again.
So right now I feel like an arse (excuse my French) and am heading right back to cuddle my snotty baby. And I hope to remind myself more often that being a mother is also about sacrificing one’s own sanity when needed, because that’s as important a part of parenting as the happy times are.