In the Dark

Wherever you are, it is dark.

That is the first criterion.  It is dark, and, with any luck, it is quiet.  Because this is the Wind-Down Time.

Usually, you are at home, in your baby’s room, or in your room; but sometimes, you are in your in-laws’ study, or your sister’s guest room, or your college buddy’s bathroom (in the worst-case scenario, and obviously not speaking from experience, of course).  In any case, the time has come for your child to Wind Down, so you find or create a quiet space to rock and soothe and see it through.

If your baby is nursing, the breast does the work.  If not, there is the bottle, and the singing of quiet songs, and the small board book.  There is the swoosh-swoosh of your hands, methodically rubbing the back.  Sometimes there is your voice, a stage whisper, talking through the day, an oral history of the triumphs and pitfalls: Get it all out now, don’t hold it all inside that small, sensitive head of yours.

But always, it is dark.

So what do you do, Mom?  What do you do with those quiet, dark moments, just you and the squirmy baby and the swoosh-swoosh of your hands or the creak-creak of the rocker?  What do you do with that time?

Perhaps you release your mind to the small stuff.  What will I wear tomorrow?  What should I make for dinner on Sunday?

Perhaps you work on The List.  The car needs gas; we haven’t finished the thank-you notes from the birthday; there is a long-overdue haircut that seriously should happen this week; oh, God, I totally forgot to buy formula today but if I order before midnight tonight it should get here by Thursday and I think we can make do until then.  There is the fifth-anniversary tray, the one the kids broke back in June when they pulled it off the counter and the handle snapped off, and you found that silversmith in the Castro who can probably weld it back together, but you have to get over there.  The stroller has a flat tire and you need to take it to the bike shop to get fixed.

Perhaps it is Thanksgiving, and it’s 1:00 am, and the dishes are done
and the manners don’t matter anymore, and for the first time in 24 hours
you actually pause to be thankful.  I mean, seriously.  Thankful.

Maybe it is Wednesday, hump day, and you can go in late tomorrow, and you plan out your workout.

Maybe it is Monday, and the week is just beginning, and you strategize when (how? if?) you can *finally* (because it’s been since July, and actually, it’s an issue at this point) finagle a pedicure.  Can you swing it during lunch on Friday?  Hmmm.

But speaking of sneaking off for a pedicure, maybe (shocker) you think about work.  About that issue with the budget that you need to work out and the database with the glitch and the donor who changed his email address but “forgot” to notify you.

Maybe it’s Thursday, or Saturday, and Jesus, but isn’t the week over yet?  And you just put your head down on the mattress (if you’re seated on the floor next to the bed) or you lean back on the glider and you close your eyes for few minutes and just. Let. Go. Of. The. List.

Maybe it’s one of those lonely nights.  Where you’ve cut off your baby’s dinner after two carrots because you simply could not handle another food item thrown on the floor; where you toddler’s bad attitude and your stubborn ground-holding meant he didn’t get a bedtime story; where one of them cried until they were too tired to cry anymore.  Maybe you sit there, and swoosh-swoosh and second-guess and self-criticize and justify until you don’t know which end is up.

Maybe you weep, very quietly, not-quite-alone, in the dark.  And then you feel a little bit guilty.  Because God only knows.  You’ve got it good, girlfriend.

But eventually, the moment passes.  That little body, your charge, goes limp.  The last shudder of involuntary muscle spasms passes, with a small grunt or a smack of the lips or a flutter of the eyelids, and the babes are asleep.  Your work, for the moment, is done.

You stagger, maybe a bit groggily, from your post in the chair or on the floor.  You lay the baby down, give the little boy in the big bed one last kiss on the forehead, and you open the door.

The light from the kitchen is blinding.