Early days yet. I repeat this to myself at various times throughout the day (and the night). This week has been so long. And this month--how long is February? Too long, my friend, too long. The first week of Hugo's life glided by like a little honeymoon, everyone snuggled in tight at home, staring at the baby, sleep deprived but happy. Last Friday everything fell apart as Hattie fell sick with the fiercest of Nasties: stomach bug. After three days spent laundering, cleaning, comforting, hydrating, disinfecting, laundering again--Devin also became ill. Thus far Hugo and I have been spared. But I have found myself the only well and able person in the house, tending the sick, feeding the hungry.
Part of me has been fighting resentment: after all I am the one still reeling physically/emotionally from labor, delivery and marathon-all-night nursing sessions. Why this--now? My home in shambles. Everything an emergency, a misery. I am so tired. These days the exhaustion overwhelms the love, the gratitude I know I should feel when I look in the face of my son.
My "worser genius" responds: "I do not want to look at the face of my son when he is screaming for food and wide awake from 2 AM till 5 AM, when I have spent a long day comforting, cleaning, disinfecting...etc. etc."
But this, of course, is the act of love I am called to now.
For a moment, for a moment. Better days will come. February seems long, but it is the shortest month. Bodies heal, babies learn to sleep, laundry will be done tomorrow, the sun will grow brighter, and already the resurrection lilies are sticking their green spikes out of the compost. But it's early days yet.