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The only thing that helps my anxiety is knowledge. Knowledge is power. Which means I need to know how Amelia is feeling, but I need to know how I’m feeling first.
When I get out of the shower, I get dressed and head for the bedroom, only to find Emmie asleep in the small bassinet beside the bed. We didn’t have one initially, but we found on the worst sleepless nights, having it there made a difference. Emmie has always responded to us resting a hand on her stomach and talking to her. It’s a lot easier to safely do that with a bassinet, which is clearly what Amelia did while I was showering, since her hand is still resting on Emmie’s stomach, though Amelia is also asleep, one earbud hanging out of her ear.
Having a kid is hard. Too many people make it sound like the best part of your life—and don’t get me wrong, it is—but that doesn’t make it easy. It’s long nights and bodily fluids and exhaustion so intense you can feel it in your bones. It makes it harder to connect with your partner or even yourself.
I repeat that to myself as I pull the other earbud from Amelia’s ear, then set the earbuds and her phone on the bedside table. I flip off the light, then crawl into bed, pulling the covers over Amelia.
We’re still finding our footing with communication and having Emmie makes that harder. It’s important to have some grace for ourselves and each other. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Somehow that makes me feel better. Like I’m reading a little too much into the communication barrier we’ve had the last few days. It also makes me less scared that our foundation isn’t strong enough to build on. We’re strong. Deep inside me, I know that. We have things to work through while also being parents to a three-month-old. It’s okay if there’s a steep learning curve.
Lying in bed, I stare up at the ceiling, my body exhausted but my brain uninterested in shutting off.
They say you should do things when the baby does things, like sleep when the baby sleeps. But since Emmie does not introspect, I have to introspect while she sleeps. Which is fine. It’s not like my brain was going to let me do anything else anyway. If there’s a problem to solve, I want to solve it, even if that means having deep conversations with myself when I should be sleeping.
Amelia
I wake with a start and look around. Did I doze off? How long have I been asleep? I shove myself upright and look at the clock. 1:56 in the morning? When did I fall asleep? Nine? Shit. No wonder my boobs hurt. I look down at the bassinet, but Emmie isn’t there.
Spinning around on the bed, I see Miles is gone, too.
Forcing myself out of bed, I quickly pee, then walk out of the bedroom, looking for my two favorite humans.
I find Miles in the rocking recliner in the living room with Emmie on his chest, rustling around. There’s an episode of Friends playing on the television, but Miles isn’t really watching it. He looks over at me, smiling softly as I walk to him. “Hey, baby,” he says quietly, his deep voice raspy.
“Hey. I was wondering where you went.”
“Sorry if I worried you. I couldn’t sleep, so when she started fussing, I brought her out here. I tried to give her a bottle of milk, but she didn’t drink much before passing out. Then she woke up again and passed out after a few more sips. She’s been rustling for the last half hour. I was going to come get you in a few minutes if she didn’t settle down.”
“Well, I’ve got plenty of milk for her now. My boobs feel like rocks.”
He reaches over and brushes his hand over one, his eyes going wide. I scoop Emmie from his arms as he says, “Feed her. I’ll grab your hand pump for the other side.”
“Thanks.” I sit down on the couch, and a few minutes later, Miles joins me, and in ridiculous things that makes me swoon, he lifts the other side of my shirt and carefully lines the hand pump up on my leaking breast, then slowly pumps it for me. It’s a simple enough thing. I could do it myself, but the fact that he chooses to do it for me conveys his thoughtfulness and love. I know I was wrong to be worried yesterday. I’m sure he held back because of what happened when I was at my worst, but I don’t want him to hold back from me. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” I ask quietly.
He stares at me for a moment, still slowly pumping. His eyes grow glassy as he looks at me. “Anxiety. Worrying about my anxiety. Trying to shut my anxiety up so I could think clearly.”
“About what?”
He lets out a long sigh. “Are you okay? Jesus, I’ve been scared to ask you that.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’ve been… off the last few days, but I don’t—” I stop, tears welling in my eyes. “I know I handled things wrong after my baby shower. I snapped. I was falling apart, but I don’t… I don’t want you to stop asking me if I’m okay. I might not always have an answer, but when you ask, it makes me feel loved and cared for. I might’ve been a little grumpy when you held back yesterday.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. My anxiety or my fear of my anxiety has been clouding my judgment. I scared myself into thinking I was asking you out of anxiousness, but really, I just wanted to be sure you’re okay and that you knew I was here for you.”
“I always know that.” I look down at the pump covering my nipple. “You’re always taking care of me in the smallest ways. I’m sorry if me closing off scared you.”
“Why are you?”
I mash my lips together, then close my eyes, letting out a breath before I say, “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my dad’s death.”
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop working the hand pump. “I’m sorry, Ames.”
“I’m sorry I shut down. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I should’ve warned you. One freaking sentence is all it would’ve taken. ‘Miles, I’m going to be in my own head and struggling because it’s the anniversary of my dad’s death.’ I could have said that. I should have, but I didn’t. I was afraid I wouldn’t have an answer to any questions you might ask me, but I’ve realized that’s not the point. You deserve to know when I’m struggling. Even if I don’t know exactly how to talk about it. I’m sorry.”
He lets out a long sigh. “It’s okay. I overreacted. I’ve been hyper aware of my anxiety lately, and it’s made me uncertain about how to talk to you. It all sounds stupid now. You don’t have to have any answers, but if you want to talk or vent or cry or scream… I’m here.”
“I know,” I whisper, reaching over and running my hand through his hair.
“Please don’t shut me out again,” he breathes. “It killed me seeing you hurt for months and not let me in.”
