My Dearest Catherine

My Dearest Catherine,

All you do is fucking cry. I don't care that you are a baby and "that's what babies do." You come home from daycare and you cry. I nurse you, and when you're done, and warm, and sleepy and I put you down in your bassinet, you cry. When I soothe you with a pacifier, the very thing I did not want to happen, you fall back asleep, only to wake up to cry.

I can't tell you the amount of times that I have stubbed my toe, hit my shin, rammed my shoulder into the door jamb, all while rushing to your room in the middle of the night because you are crying. Or the amount of tears that have fallen over your tears, your wailing, or your incessant moaning that is more like nails on a chalkboard.

I have said horrible things while you are in the middle of one of your fits and my anxiety is making my skin crawl. I have fallen asleep after nursing you, only to wake up crying myself, frustrated that no matter what I do, it isn't the one thing that you apparently need.

And then I find that one thing that does work. Praise the Lord! Only to find that not even 24 hours later, it doesn't work. In fact  it feels like I am running through a list, and each thing on that list I can only use once, and then you are immune and I have to move on to the next. But the tricks on the list are becoming more and more sparse and again, my anxiety wratchets up a notch knowing there isn't much more I can do for you.

Tonight, after nursing you and putting you down, where you fell asleep within minutes, you woke up crying. I vowed tonight I would let you cry it out.

And that's when the panic attack hit. I have not experienced a panic attack in a few years. It was a pretty low moment, as I thought that part of my life was over with. Only for it to come roaring back tonight, while I was sitting on my couch, watching my son throw a ball in the house and my husband answer emails on his phone.

While the mess of my house began to suffocate me. Luckily, I identified it and once again, trudged upstairs and comforted you. Once again, I stuck a boob in your moith, followed by a pacifier when you wouldn't eat. And then I rocked you. And sung to you.

And cried.

I am so. fucking. tired.

Everyone tells me this is a phase. This too shall pass. Hang in there. My baby did this too. He/She grew out of it.

But they aren't in the trenches anymore. They aren't frustrated and sad and tired and hungry for some time to just relax.

But then there are those moments when you are sweet and lovable and that reminds me there is light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes I have to squint to see that light, but its there.

It's there. Somewhere.

I love you, Baby Girl. But holy shit are you exhausting.

Mama