A world of worry
The stupid monitor is silent again.
Not entirely silent - there’s the constant hum of the humidifier and the crackling of static. But underneath that, what I’m trying to hear - nothing. My baby sleeps silently, and it’s driving me toward insomnia.
I crane my neck to stare at it, that hunk of plastic and wires that is supposed to be reassuring to parents.
Nothing.
No coughs, sneezes, snorts, stretches, or even farts. I try to will him to wake up. Or even just a little sniffle. Something. Anything to make me stop wanting to leap out of bed and run to check on him. I look to Bob for support, but of course he is already asleep. Or at least pretending to be, to avoid his neurotic wife.
As I stare at the ceiling fan, hoping it will somehow put me to sleep, it hits me.
This is my life for the rest of my life.
Every single day until I die will be spent worrying about my baby. And that worries me. Will I ever get a good night’s sleep again? How can I get any work done when there is the infinitely tiny possibility that he will be dropped at daycare, cracking his head on the corner of a bookshelf on the way down, and bleed into his brain before anyone can move? It only gets worse as the rest of our lives flash before my eyes, and along with it all the dangers that will be set in front of us.
I start to wonder how I ever managed to take the baby outside, let alone have someone else care for him eight hours a day.
This, to me, is the key to motherhood. How can you not have these fears about something you grew inside your body for 40 weeks, and then comes out looking like a smaller, squishier version of yourself? People live and die for their pets. Take that and multiply it by 100, and you might be down the street from the ballpark of how parents feel about their babies.
A small sigh comes over the monitor. Such a tiny peep calms me, and I nestle into the bed and fall asleep, with my worries on hold.
Until tomorrow night.
Add comment February 20th, 2008