Occasionally I feel a strange nostalgia for the time right after his birth, for the absolute removal of all of my responsibilities, save him. My focus was solely on feeding, on sleeping, on eating. And on sleeping some more. There was the reassuring vapidity of daytime television and the luxury of lost in a really good book, but mostly there was time spent simply learning about and loving my baby.
I don’t generally allow myself to feel nostalgic, much less bored. There was something incredibly decadent, illicit even, about resting, about removing to-dos. About doing nothing but studying his features, memorizing his make up, soaking him in. To say that I could lie on the couch and cuddle an infant for an eternity might be hyperbolic. And the post-delivery recovery period did feel a bit like incarceration, the dependence a bit too snug. Thinking about it, though, makes me wish for duty to fall away, for doctor’s orders to rest. For permission to let go of obligations, for relaxation to settle in, for ample time to stare at him. For my only job in the world to be learning about and loving my boys.