A Night in the Life of a Newborn Mom
10:00 PM: The “bedtime” prep begins. It’ll be a long night for me, and far from the days of being independent with no dependents. No preloaded iPad with the latest TV shows, or a cozy book. My pre-sleep preparation is very different now and requires some preplanning, no flying off the cuff stuff anymore. I prepare the essentials to get me through the night — my Frankie Green bottle is full of warm water, I’m wearing my trusty and most comfortable oversized t-shirt, breast-pump accessories are handy, dummies, swaddles, blankets and a healthy supply of pillows too. A baby bottle is sterilised and prepared for the second part of the feed. Baby boy has been hun-gary!
I don’t play around with skin care, so I squeeze in a condensed skincare routine, slapping on my serums and moisturisers as efficiently as possible, while hubby spends quality time with baby before he goes up to bed. I’ve been on night shift since he’s gone back to his 5am work weeks. I’m iterating each evening and making the routine more fool proof each night (it’s only been 1 week since doing it solo), hence the preparation. Doing things one handed is not as easy as it looks, especially when holding a mini human being. Of course, things could turn on its head if baby decides to stay unsettled and avoid sleep. Any extra prep can help give me a slight advantage to better manage the unknown.
10:30 PM: The house is trending towards sleep. But I am definitely not. Baby boy is dropping in and out of micro naps, but easily woken and cries when put down. What I’d give for him to fall into a 90 min slumber, so I could nap too and rest my back. The lower back pains have been mild but tend to peak at night when he wants to be held and I’m having to heat bottles or grab items single handedly. I place him down on his play mat for a moment and baby boy starts wriggling, kicking his strong, sturdy little legs, and making grunts of protest. Sleep? Nah, he’s got other plans.
11:00 PM: Round one of the pickup-put-down marathon. My poor lower back. I’ve tried every position, every swaddle and weighted blanket combination, and every piece of advice the nurses, midwives and Dr Google has to offer. Rocking, swaying, football hold—none of it is working. With no inhibitions, I attempt a lane sort of lullaby, interspersed with shush-ing that is meant to remind him of the womb, but he only responds by getting redder, scrunching his face, and erupting into shrieks. So much for the soothing voice of his mother. I try the bouncer, nope. The pram, double nope. His diaper is changed, his swaddled and he isn’t taking to the dummy. My back aches, my arms ache, and my soul aches. Please calm down, kid.
11:45 PM: Success? Maybe. His eyelids finally start to droop, fighting sleep with every ounce of his little body. Reluctantly, his eyes fully close and his body relaxes into what looks like sleep. I creep slowly to the couch, trying to lie down in this precious silence that is his sleep. I can hear his breathing even out, and I feel a wave of relief. I might just get a few minutes to myself, but then he whimpers and I can see his eyes fling open.
12:30 AM: Time has lost all meaning in this twilight limbo. A feed-sleep- play cycle, the nurses said typically last for 2-3 hours. He hasn’t slept in 4 hours and seems so alert. Yesterday, he had fed and settled by this time, but tonight, he’s as unpredictable as the wind. I can feel my body demanding sleep, but my mind resisting. I’ve pumped one breast, while waiting for him to take to another, unsuccessfully. He isn’t hungry, but he sure as heck isn’t tired. I’m somewhere between sleep and awake, unable to fully commit to either. I wonder if accumulated sleep debt will cut of years off my life?
1:00 AM: Wahhh, Wah, WAHHHH. He wakes with an urgency that catapults me off the couch, in a way no alarm ever could. Within literal seconds, he’s transitioned from sleepy murmurs to full-on newborn siren, I’m amazed the cries don’t wake the whole house. The luxury of deep sleep. I wonder how many loud noises I’ve slept through in the nights.
1:05 AM: I go ahead and begin the diaper change, goddamn it’s heavy, yep completely filled with newborn business. He dramatically whimpers and pouts his teeny lips. As if all these actions (wiping his bum and arranging a fresh nappy) were an inconvenience, rather than an act of service. It’s all for you little man. The animated expressions of a newborn is something I didn’t anticipate, and I respond with coo-ing and soothing nonsense to keep him engaged and away from shriek-ville.
We’re done with the diaper change, and his cries, which grew louder despite my efforts, have softened. I cradle him, and he blinks up at me with wide deepest eyes and reflexes that can’t mask his hunger. His little mouth opens, and he roots around, hungry and desperate, until he finally finds his fist and tries to eat it. The hunger is real, and it’s my cue.
1:45 AM: Breastfeeding is a marathon in its own right. I’ve built a fortress of pillows around me, each one strategically placed to support my sore arms, aching shoulders, and sore lower back. Baby boy latches on, eagerly, and I watch as his teeny tiny face relaxes and settles in. I wonder if my milk supply will ever catch up to his hunger. I’ll need to prepare a bottle of formula after this in the preprepared bottle.
2:15 AM: Glug, glug, glug. He gulps down the bottle with determination, as though he’s on a mission to drain every last drop, but I also know it means he’s swallowing lots of air. That could keep him up and distress him. I slow his pace, pausing occasionally to dab at his little milk-soaked chin with a muslin cloth. Every pause, he squirms, demanding more (“gimme gimme!”). I’ve realised that it’s the littlest person in the house that has the biggest needs. I muster strength to hoist him up over my left shoulder for a burp, holding his body in place with one hand as I pat his back with the other, praying he’ll burp without spitting up on my sweater. I’ve missed putting a towel under him, over my shoulder. I forgot to prepare it and make a mental note to have one handy tomorrow.
2:30 AM: He’s finally milk-drunk (woohooo), his tiny fists unclenched at the end of his floppy arms which are splayed out by his sides. His head lolling like a little bobblehead as I move around to free myself from this pillow moat. Gently, I place him down on the mat, and attempt to wrap him in a soft jersey cotton blanket. But I fumble with the swaddle, still feeling like an amateur and not always able to get it snug. There’s a science to this swaddle and I’m no scientist. I tighten one side, tuck in the other, and exhale a little sigh of relief. He’s wrapped and (hopefully) ready for sleep.
3:00 AM:
In the quiet hours of the night, when the world around me is asleep, it’s just the two of us—me and my little boy. It can feel isolating, in this quiet house, where the diminished sleep makes issues so much worse. He probably won’t even remember these endless nights, but I will. For now, though, it’ll be our little night time dance to feed, change and play. Despite the exhaustion, despite the need for sleep, there’s something strangely sacred about this time.
