Zen and the art of baby raising
Amhairghin is almost three weeks old and i have discovered the zen of babying. No plans, no hours, no day, no night. No must do, need to do. No schedules. Just the moment matters and when i give up everything, then the thrill of motherhood blossoms. Night feeds. What are the best things about night feeds? The tug tug tug at the breast and heart. The thousand hot wet stars hurtling sharply through my breasts. The silent needing and need - of the both of us. The motion stillness of the house. His little ear, the axis around which the world turns.
Clocks, time, quantities, data, all dissolve and i am there, alone with him. Making milk in not simply subconscious - it is unconscious. Reason giving over to the body. I wonder how am i going to cope with sending Oisin to school, breastfeeding and keeping the house - as well as renovating it. It will have to be done in pieces, extempore, improvised - not with a project plan, or schedules and deadlines, but by the moment.
I am tired though. I also think i'm about to catch Peter's flu. It's difficult when you're tired, but there is no choice. He cries till he is the colour of an aubergine. All i can do is hold him in my arms and have him cry. When i first did this for Oisin, for the first time i understood what all mothers felt. What Mary felt as she saw her son suffer. The pieta, just the very thought of it, would bring on tears. How could that be? Her contract to him - what of his contract to her? Does a child have a duty to its parent to honour its own life? Was what Jesus did fair to his mother? What kind of religion sacrifices familial ties for political ones? Is this is the price of liberation?
Clocks, time, quantities, data, all dissolve and i am there, alone with him. Making milk in not simply subconscious - it is unconscious. Reason giving over to the body. I wonder how am i going to cope with sending Oisin to school, breastfeeding and keeping the house - as well as renovating it. It will have to be done in pieces, extempore, improvised - not with a project plan, or schedules and deadlines, but by the moment.
I am tired though. I also think i'm about to catch Peter's flu. It's difficult when you're tired, but there is no choice. He cries till he is the colour of an aubergine. All i can do is hold him in my arms and have him cry. When i first did this for Oisin, for the first time i understood what all mothers felt. What Mary felt as she saw her son suffer. The pieta, just the very thought of it, would bring on tears. How could that be? Her contract to him - what of his contract to her? Does a child have a duty to its parent to honour its own life? Was what Jesus did fair to his mother? What kind of religion sacrifices familial ties for political ones? Is this is the price of liberation?
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