The Book of Ruth Chapter 6- I'm fine. She's fine. We're fine. Everybody's fine.

When my friend asked me why I hadn’t written about Ruth since she came home, I said, because there’s nothing interesting going on. She said, ah, it’s because you’re still in it. The part you’re going to write about. Eventually.

Last night Ruth slept in her own room.

!

!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!

As many mothers told me, this would be hard. It was. Not for her. But for me. Nothing about being a baby seems hard for her. She, like all babies, is pure instinct. She is moldable, trainable, malleable. Unlike us moldy oldies stuck in our ways. After marathon flutter-sucking sessions, she’s been waking in the night more and more. Maybe it’s a sleep regression, teething, or, as we suspected, because I’m a loud ass sleeper and my mid-night antics were keeping her butt awake. We agreed to experiment with where to put her down for the night.

My protestations: is her room too cold? Will she be lonely? Will she suffocate herself if I’m not there to breathe down her neck? Will she think we don’t love her? Will she feel abandoned like she’s done something wrong? Are the flamingos on her wall going to terrify her at night?! Like shrimp-tinted, neck-craning gollums? Turns out she’s fucking fiiiiiine. She went down late then slept for 6.5 hours.

I think these are the questions I often forget to ask myself, save the flamingo one (obviously they delight me, I chose them). This morning I woke up at 5:30 am with a start because I was too cold and my stomach was growling. I hadn’t taken care of my own needs before shutting down for the night. Funny that.

My heart is achey. She is already needing me less. Hear me out. I’m not neglecting her, I swear. She still needs me to y’know feed her. Clothe her. Change her. Burp her. Love her. Etc. But the more she comes alive with that animated “what are we going to get up to today, Mahm?!”, look in her eye, the more aware I am of time passing and the letting go that will eventually have to happen. When I go back to work. When she goes to daycare. When she goes to school. Her first sleep over. Camp. The first time she tells me I’m ruining her life. When she asks me to drop her off around the corner because being seen with me would kill her cred. University. My eventual but certain death. You get it. I am living both here and in the future. Trying to hold on for as long as I can without damaging her.

Her story is just beginning and mine is shifting, irrevocably. During the first couple of months T and I lived our lives the same as B.R. (Before.Ruth). OMG let’s go to bed at midnight. Watch whatever TV we want. Bring her wherever we’re going. Take her to a patio for three hours while she naps, preemie styles? SURE! But as time went on she needed more consistency. We naively thought we’d gotten one of those babies that can sleep and eat anywhere! Hahahahahahaha.

Hubris at its finest.

We finally realized a consistent schedule is paramount. We’ve been lucky. This bitch, for the most part, sleeps like a rockstar. Our idea of a bad night is having to wake up twice for 6 minutes a piece to feed instead of just once after a 7 hour stretch. We complain. But we shouldn’t. But as we watch her coming into herself, I can see this spirit that I always knew was there even before she was earth-side, emerging. She is fair but insistent. She is a clear communicator and doesn’t seem concerned with anyone else’s wants or needs. She’ll give you hell but her smiles are full-bodied. She LAUGHS. Already working on that Jolicovitz twisted sense of humor.

As my shrink said, they really do come out with their own little personality. Pay attention to who they tell you they are. So, like all things we self-obsessed adults do, I project. Every time I worry, she’s almost always fine. I’m working out my own anxieties. My own needs. Is she full?!, after I’ve fed her for half an hour, she most certainly is. Does she need another hug?!, after she’s been in my arms literally all day. She actually might want a little time for herself. Babies can get touched-out too. Is she stimulated enough during the day?!, after we’ve tummy time-d and read every book she owns. I need to turn those questions back on myself because it’s pretty obvious she does not care. She’s FINE.

A nurse in the NICU told me, all these little people really do is show you more about yourself. Their story isn’t your story. They are just another very important player in your narrative. They are building their own and you have little control over that. Nor should you.

As Ruth grows I’m becoming more and more aware of time. Thomas and I have both never thought about death as much as when we brought someone to life. How much time will we have with her? What else do we want to get done? How old is she? Age wise? Adjusted-age wise? Is she hitting her milestones? How much time do I have left on mat leave? When will she fall asleep? How long is she going to suckle on this tit?! Tick tick tick tick tick.

All this tells me is that my main fear of motherhood: that I would lose myself and become this overbearing monster mom and not know who I was anymore, was just that; a fear. It hasn’t come to fruition. Not yet. There’s still time. But I am profoundly aware that she is her own little person. I am simply her guide. And food supply, but not for long. Her doctor told me to start her on solids a few weeks ago to which I instinctively yelled “WHAT?”, at him. So, all things must pass. Yes she is already needing me in different ways. Time marches on. She is right by side, one night. In her own flamingoe-d room, the next. Big heavy sighs. Exhales.

I wonder what she’ll think about all this? What she’ll tell her shrink? But, really that’s not my story. I just hope when the time comes, she’ll choose to share it with me.