Squeeze

I heard it, the sound I most dread hearing at night: my daughter’s cry. I know that might sound like a “motherly” thing to say. It might even conjure up certain ideals of motherhood, the compassionate tug at a mother’s heart to imagine that her child is sad or even hurt followed by the innate desire to rescue and to hold. Well, this is not what I’m talking about. None of those so-called motherly instincts are invoked in the middle of the night. It’s like I forget that I’m a mom. It’s more like the feeling of sheer anxiety mixed in with a good dose of selfishness and thoughts like, “what the heck is the matter with this child?” or, “I can’t stand this!” “Why do I have to get her (as if she had another mom)?”

The room was pitch black (which come to think of it, maybe if I saw her little face looking up at me I might feel a bit more “motherly”, but then again, do I want her to have memories of my irritated expression? Nah. I’m sticking with the pitch black thing). Her cry was mournful but soon it turned into rage. This did not help matters much. I picked her up and decided to rock her (screw all the books that say you shouldn’t do that for fear of creating a habit). I was tired, I figured I’d do the quick fix method (translated, anything that makes my baby stop crying with no thought of future consequences). She settled down and within a second she was asleep. So I carefully put her back in her crib. War erupted! Immediately, without hesitation, which was so impolite, she became like a dormant volcano who finally decides to erupt after four hundred years. I decided to do the “book” thing and stay by her side, but not pick her up. Whatever.

Ten minutes or so had gone by, but by “middle-of-the-night” standard this is equivalent to a solid two hours. I had had it! No remnants of “motherliness” left in this one! I wanted to cry. I, too, felt I had good reason to. I wanted to cry because I wasn’t sleeping and wanted to be. I was so tired! I wanted to cry because those stupid books were probably right; rocking your baby to sleep is never a good idea. I wanted to cry because I realized that my left over “baby fat” was sort of “hanging” over the crib railing and it was so infuriatingly uncomfortable! I wanted to cry because some moms are so freakin’ skinny! I wanted to cry because I felt helpless. I wanted to cry because this is not how it’s supposed to go, this motherhood thing. So I did. I cried and cried.
It was quite a sight, if there ever was one, baby in the crib crying her head off and mother gently leaning over the crib a few inches away from baby’s face crying her head off. I could hear my hot tears rapidly falling around my daughter and even on her tummy. I kept praying that my husband wouldn’t come in for fear that the light from the hallway would shine on my face which inevitably would have made my daughter believe in monsters. I am certain of it. My mouth was wide open (and I have a big one) and my face was all crumpled up. A sight it was and one that is never found in the storybooks of mother and child.

I picked her up. I sat down in the rocking chair and rocked her (Screw those stupid baby books again!). This time I just listened to her. She was still catching her breath from all that crying. Her heart was beating fast. Her little pudgy cheeks were hot to the touch, still wet with tears. She put her little arms around me and squeezed me tight. I squeezed her back. And just like that, all my selfishness just melted away. My motherly instincts were back in full force. Nothing is ever better than snuggling with my baby. Her breathing became calm and steady like a light whispering of leaves on a fall day. I could listen to that sound all night.

I remembered that I was a mom. All I needed was a little squeeze.