Renewed
A week's worth of anxiety bubbled to the surface and once it spilled over there was no stopping it. I sobbed in my husband's arms as he insisted that I'm doing a great job, I'm loved and admired by my family, he told me over and over how much he loves and appreciates me. Bless him for his kindness to me. Still, all I could do was cry.
The silliest part is always the straw that breaks the camel's back. I had purchased some nursing tops to wear at night; two lovely little cotton v-necked tanks. I washed them and had worn one the previous night. The other was waiting in my drawer, or so I thought.
I usually sleep in scoop necked shirts; I am small chested, and no matter how well tucked I think my shirt is under my breast, it always, always creeps its way up and into my baby's mouth, frustrating her, forcing me to readjust, and never giving a peaceful nursing session a chance. My nighttime feedings were so much more pleasant the night before and I was looking forward to another night of more relaxed nursing than what she or I are used to.
Before I got in bed, I ripped my shirt off and went to my drawer knowing that my never-worn top was in there. I had just cleaned the bedroom, our laundry was completely washed and folded neatly in the dressers-Marie Kondo style. I pulled my drawer open with no reason to doubt that my next step would be pulling my new cozy shirt over my head, but it was nowhere to be seen. Nor was it in my husband's drawer, any of my seven children's drawers, or hanging in the closet that we (9 of us) are currently sharing. It seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. With increasing frustration and a second look in every previously searched corner, the tears came up and I knew, I KNEW, it was silly. But I went to bed bare-chested, defeated, my immediate future a night full of tiny, sharp-nailed fingers twisting at my nipples, and I let the tears fall. And guess what. It felt good. With those tears I allowed myself to melt into my motherly exhaustion. With my tears came a release of anxiety I've been feeling all week long. My husband put his arms around me and though I certainly wasn't looking for his pity, and I admittedly didn't fully appreciate his efforts to comfort me in the moment, the memory of his strong arms and comforting words in my now-clear head bring a different sort of tears to my eyes; grateful ones. I love that man.
I woke up this morning with my sweet baby cuddled close to my body, her tiny head nestled into my bare chest. With my weeping forgotten, I felt nothing but release and gratitude in my heart for her little soul. For my husband. For our other six sleeping children scattered in our bed, on our bedroom floor, and throughout the house.
Crying is not a frivolous fit. Letting go of trapped emotions that have been allowed to chafe and blister is a lovely liberation. My spirit feels free today. Let the tears fall.
The silliest part is always the straw that breaks the camel's back. I had purchased some nursing tops to wear at night; two lovely little cotton v-necked tanks. I washed them and had worn one the previous night. The other was waiting in my drawer, or so I thought.
I usually sleep in scoop necked shirts; I am small chested, and no matter how well tucked I think my shirt is under my breast, it always, always creeps its way up and into my baby's mouth, frustrating her, forcing me to readjust, and never giving a peaceful nursing session a chance. My nighttime feedings were so much more pleasant the night before and I was looking forward to another night of more relaxed nursing than what she or I are used to.
Before I got in bed, I ripped my shirt off and went to my drawer knowing that my never-worn top was in there. I had just cleaned the bedroom, our laundry was completely washed and folded neatly in the dressers-Marie Kondo style. I pulled my drawer open with no reason to doubt that my next step would be pulling my new cozy shirt over my head, but it was nowhere to be seen. Nor was it in my husband's drawer, any of my seven children's drawers, or hanging in the closet that we (9 of us) are currently sharing. It seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. With increasing frustration and a second look in every previously searched corner, the tears came up and I knew, I KNEW, it was silly. But I went to bed bare-chested, defeated, my immediate future a night full of tiny, sharp-nailed fingers twisting at my nipples, and I let the tears fall. And guess what. It felt good. With those tears I allowed myself to melt into my motherly exhaustion. With my tears came a release of anxiety I've been feeling all week long. My husband put his arms around me and though I certainly wasn't looking for his pity, and I admittedly didn't fully appreciate his efforts to comfort me in the moment, the memory of his strong arms and comforting words in my now-clear head bring a different sort of tears to my eyes; grateful ones. I love that man.
I woke up this morning with my sweet baby cuddled close to my body, her tiny head nestled into my bare chest. With my weeping forgotten, I felt nothing but release and gratitude in my heart for her little soul. For my husband. For our other six sleeping children scattered in our bed, on our bedroom floor, and throughout the house.
Crying is not a frivolous fit. Letting go of trapped emotions that have been allowed to chafe and blister is a lovely liberation. My spirit feels free today. Let the tears fall.
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