Last night I stayed up late, just playing around with some photos, trying out some new post-processing techniques, drooling over a new lens that’s out of my price range. The usual.
Around 1am the baby woke up. She sometimes does, it’s not uncommon. I nursed her, she went back to sleep.
Then aboutÂ a half hour later she woke up again. And then again. And by then I wasn’t even going to bother trying to go to bed myself because what’s the point if she’s just going to wake me up again in 20 minutes? After about an hour and a half of this I was feeling a bit frustrated, to put it lightly. I may have muttered something to the effect of “go the EFF to sleep already!”. Except I didn’t say eff. And I didn’t mutter so much as exclaim. Loudly.
But then I remembered that this week I’m supposed to take a self-portrait of me and mah babehs, as part of this online workshop I’m doing right now. And so instead of just roiling, I took a couple of deep breaths, and grabbed my camera on my way into the room.
I’m glad I did.
It’s not always fun. Or beautiful. Or easy. And I still would never claim to have had a religious bonding experience with my any of my children via breastfeeding. In my book- kids must eat and bewbs make free food. Done and done. (Also, I don’t have to bother washing bottles, which I like because I’m quite lazy.)
But last night I learned that if you let it- it can be nice, the waking up. The middle of the night cuddles. The milky grins when she looks up at you. The way her hand rests on my chest as she (finally) drifts off to sleep.
But thank goodness Nate’s home from work today and I got to sleep a bit this morning. Otherwise I’m pretty sure this post would have a whoooole different tone.