twelve minutes in the kitchen by myself

It’s midnight and I’m fighting with my three-week old. We’ve both agreed he’s hungry, we just can’t agree on the angle of boob that will satiate this hunger. He latches, detaches, latches, detaches. Throws his head back, flailing his tiny hands dangerously near my tender nipples and screams. We try again. I’ve been told not to expect any patterns of behavior or routines, that babies keep changing and changing what they do, when they do it, and how. But let me tell you, for the last week, this is our pattern.

I’ve been duped. Of breastfeeding my friends said: "I loved it!" "It was like a drug!" and "It was easy!" I hate my friends. And I hate breastfeeding. If you quote me, I’ll deny it. What? You’re gonna say you read it on the internet so it must be true? Nice try.

But before the Mommy SWAT teams come to drag me away, let this humble missal be my final triumph…

At 2:30am, I hear him again. He’s generally a calm baby and by the sound of the lose-his-mind cry I can tell he’s been trying to get my attention for a while. We engage in the dance – I offer boob, he rejects it, cries, tries his fist instead, cries some more. He latches then rears back, my nipple at last well-secured in his mouth. At 3:30, after achieving minimal ingestion of nourishment, I bounce him to a tenuous sleep and roll over.

But the gods are merciful this evening, and the Wee Beast does not awake again until 7:00, light already sifting through the blinds, the cats not having bothered to pester us for breakfast yet – they too are relieved. On a whole three-and-a-half-hour stretch of sleep he looks oh-so cute again. We coo at each other, and I feed him with mild success and renewed patience. Before he can decide he wants more, I bound out of bed (my prison so many mornings) and suggest to Mike that I’ll get breakfast for us.

I put on water for some Earl Grey (decaf, naturally. look, I just can’t breastfeed, I’m not a barbarian!). Something is spilled on the burner as usual and I turn on the blower to try to shoo away the stinky smoke. I clear off the counter happily, though I realize I’m destroying some system or other my husband has devised there. I find random items to create a breakfast out of = some cheese, some granola. I find the orange juice container in the frig with .01 drops of oj left and cheerily drip it into a plastic cup then crush the empty carton with fervor and toss it in the trash returning inches of sacred space to my life. I fill the cats’ water bowl and feed the extra water to the fern. Order and control have returned to my world. I am gleeful.

It then occurs to me that the blower is still creating white noise and whatever splooged on the burner is long gone. I hesitate, but turn it off. Sure enough, it had been drowning out a wee cry emanating from the bedroom. I taste the oj and dump it in the sink. It’s turned into iodine. I pile the rest of breakfast carefully onto my arm and head back to my bed. There, I find my son and husband locked in a staring contest. The baby is wearing the last un-peed-on outfit in the drawer and two different socks. I can see I’m not needed here. I drop off the food and jog back out to the living room where my journal has been sitting unheeded for days.

Haul me away if you want. Of freedom I say: "I loved it!" "It was like a drug!" and "It was easy!"