The night she screamed

After reading Notes from Inside my Head this morning - I remembered how I felt when my first daughter was born. Exausted - all the time. My life (as I knew it) had come to a screeching halt. . .and now centered around this child. My body, recovering from a C-section, had now become hers. Her nourishment, her conveyance, her comfort, her hands and feet. I dressed her, fed her, changed her, changed her bedding, changed her clothing, rocked her, held her, fed her, fed her, fed her, changed her. Then I slept, sometimes for 10 whole minutes before she'd wake up screaming, or fussing, or crying. So I slept when she slept, I was up when she was up. She was my dictator. I was her slave. I lost track of time. I forgot who I had been. I became a Zombie, responding to her every whim. Then one night I flipped out, and scared my husband half to death. I was soooo tired. So incredibly tired.

My husband, The Hunk, had stayed out of school that semester and worked in a sawmill - barely keeping the wolf away from our door. He wore earplugs at night and kept a regular schedule.

The only time he received intelligent conversation with his precious bride - was for an hour or so in the evening. All she did was sleep and care for baby M. Why was she tired all the time? All she did was sleep.

Then one night - she screamed - and he shot straight out of bed.

The Hunk found his bride on the kitchen floor sobbing. Seems she had broken a wooden spoon trying to compress the air out of a bottle of breast milk. He took over. He held his wife and told her everything was going to be okay. He picked up the pieces and put them all back together. He gave his bride hope, and she believed him. He settled her into the rocking chair, and brought the baby to her. They were a family. . .

We still are.