
The baby is, say, two days old, you know his face, the shape of his hands, the way he relaxes while nursing. Your beloved says something casually about picking up a book or carton of milk, and he pops out to run an errand. You are completely alone except for the baby, which is fine, which is better than fine, it’s wondrous. You are curled up on the couch together, and you are admiring his impossibly long eyelashes, when you suddenly realise that you cannot wait one more second for a long drink of cold water. You look around, and realise that the only water carrier candidate around here is you. “Fine,” you think cavalierly, “I can do this. How hard can it be?”
You forgot how tired your muscles are, and how you have this dragging sensation in your lower half when you stand. How walking requires actual effort. When you walk up the two stairs to your kitchen, you cannot just stride up, but place both feet on each step, one after the other. You stand in front of the open fridge drinking your ice-cold water, gulp by gulp, and realise that you are actually contemplating the walk back to the couch, the walk you have made, oh, about a million times without a moment’s thought. What is it, a matter of fourteen steps? Isn’t that something? Just fourteen steps, and you’re girding your strength for the long trek back.
When you try to explain this to your mother later, she’ll nod and say something supportive about how tiring it all is, but really what you mean is: Isn’t it unbelievable? That my body just switched gear like that?
It is unbelievable. Your body carried life and brought it into the world. And now it demands rest and food and drink and nothing more. It begs you: nothing more, please. Your body has worked so hard that it is now forcing you to sit and rest. Your energy is going to be used exclusively to nourish the baby and to heal your body. You can trust your body. It is awesome.
(Photo credit: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Stilles_Mineralwasser.jpg)
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