Page 9 of Finding the Pieces

I can’t remember the last time I woke up on my own, without being startled out of a restless sleep by Luca’s cries.

Will it ever get better?

I lie in bed, trying to do as they say andsleep when the baby sleeps. What a load of shit. The times I do fall asleep, he wakes up shortly after I finally close my eyes, and when I don’t, he sleeps like a dream.

When am I supposed to work? When am I supposed to clean? When am I supposed to take care of myself? When am I supposed to have a relationship with my husband? When am I supposed to catch up with friends and family?

It would take a two-week-long nap to recover from this never-ending fatigue.

I keep thinking I can strategize my way to more sleep. If Luca has a good night, I find myself trying to recreate every single detail of the routine only for it to fail miserably the next night, with him fighting sleep and then waking multiple times throughout the night.

If one more person tells me I need to try sleep training, I might fucking lose it. I have no judgment against the method or parents who decide to use it, but I had a panic attack fifteen minutes into our first and only attempt at doing so before I ran into his room and cradled a screaming Luca in my arms, swearing off Dom from ever bringing it up again.

My nervous system can’t take it. It’s simply not an option.

Soft steps sound on the carpeted stairs. I hold my breath, my head snapping toward the baby monitor. Luca doesn’t seem to hear the steps like I do—or maybe he doesn’t mind—because he doesn’t stir.

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep before I hear Dom enter our room, home from work. His slow steps approach my side of the bed, pausing as he lingers for a moment before his steps begin again, retreating from our room, the sound of the monitor fading as he leaves, taking it with him.

Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I feel them stream down my face and into my hair as I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.

I can’t talk to him. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. I don’t even recognize myself.

***

I finally fall asleep, waking to the sound of Luca’s cries from his room down the hall. My head is foggy as I roll to my side, my slow steps dragging as I make my way to his room.

Dom beats me there. He already has Luca in his arms, patting his back, hushing, and speaking softly in his ear.

The sleep routine is an ever-changing puzzle, and lately Luca’s been waking up from his afternoon napinconsolableand it takes a solid five minutes to calm him.

“Go rest, babe. I got him.” Dom smiles as he sways and rocks our sweet boy in his arms.

I nod numbly, wrapping myself in my arms, and return to our bedroom with unsure steps. I sink to our mattress, holding my middle like I’ll split into two if I don’t.

When I’m not the one taking care of Luca, I feel like I should intervene. Like no one can take care of him like I can. It’s not rational, especially when the person holding him is my partner and Luca’s very capable and loving father. But the thought still rattles around my head, untamed and uncontrollable.

When I’m in the thick of parenthood—endless dirty diapers, crying, fussing, meals, bathtime, cleaning, and near-constant redirecting of a toddler on the move—I desperately want a break. For someone to take over so I can get a minute to myself. A minute alone. A minute of peace. But when I finally get that moment, every part of me abhors it.

It’s my job. My responsibility. Luca needs me to be better at this, and I’m failing him.

I wish I was the type of mom I always imagined I’d be. Patient and easygoing, who laughs all the time with a natural maternal instinct. Who isn’t a mess of nerves and self-doubt.

I never expected to feel like I have to rediscover who I am after becoming a mother. It’s as if the day he was born, my old self disappeared—the person left standing having no idea who she is.

Momis a title I’ve always wanted, but I don’t know how to fit into the role I dreamed of playing. The shoes I bought don’t fit, and the unease I walk with leaves me blistered and hurting.

I change into a pair of leggings and one of Dom’s old hoodies—basically, my postpartum uniform at this point. My pre-pregnancy sweaters still hug tightly across my stomach and they’re not as comfortable as Dom’s looser-fitting ones, so I opt for his most days.

Downstairs, I find Dom on the floor playing with a now calm and happy Luca.

I quickly scan the living room, making a mental list of everything I need to do. I notice several of the plants, both in here and the attached kitchen, are starting to wilt and make a mental note to water them later. The diaper stash I keep in the living room is running low; I’ll need to grab more from the store this weekend. And that shirt is looking a little small on Luca; I need to go through his clothes again and size up.Another growth spurt already?

Dom is seated with his back resting against the side of our large sectional sofa that takes up most of the far wall of our living room across from the fireplace.

When we moved in, I chose vibrant, bold paint colors for the shared living spaces, and even today, feeling both exhausted and run down, the pops of color help brighten my mood. Our kitchen walls are warm, sunny yellow and the cabinets are teal. The backsplash tiles are large and patterned, each different yet cohesive. Our living room is painted an almost emerald green and our large sectional sofa is royal blue. The rust curtains and pillows pull it together.

My husband gives me a once-over, taking in my outfit, and his lips curl.

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