I can't fix it.
As her body shakes, her eyes stare at me begging for relief while her cries rip through my heart.
Something is hurting her, and I can’t fix it.
My faithful breasts aren’t working; my voice isn’t soothing; my cuddles aren’t quite enough. Yet, I am all she wants.
I wrap my arms around her, coaxing her towards my breast, encouraging her to suckle and breathe deeply. My mind races; Is it her teeth? Or, her skin? Maybe it’s that she’s overtired; Or, that the cold we’ve had is still bugging her. I ask myself over and over, repeating these words, "Shouldn’t I know exactly what’s wrong? Shouldn’t I know exactly what she needs?" I'm drawn a blank; the truth settles, I can't fix it.
I continue to run my fingers through her sandy blonde hair, praying words of peace. She suckles for a few minutes, then suddenly begins to scream again. I pass her to her Papa, yet she screams harder, throwing her arms back towards me. I'm all she wants, and I can't fix it. Mostly, I can. Most days, I know I am her comforter, and her safe place. Today, it’s beyond me, and for the first time, my baby cries and cries, while I feel helpless, hauntingly aware of the fact that I can't fix it. My mind scurries for solutions: food! Food always helps! Maybe she’s just hungry for actual food. I offer her favourites in quick succession; Avocado? Nope. Our old faithful blueberries? She throws them at me. Greek yoghurt will fix it! Ah, the floor is now white, and the cries continue to pulsate through my heart. Why can't I fix it?
I grab her close and take her down to her room. While I zip her into her sleeping bag, I try to speak calmly and lovingly. I lay on the bed in the darkened room, pull her close under my arm onto the breast, praying she calms and falls asleep. Eventually, her body goes limp, and her methodical suckling causes me to relax. For now, I fixed it. What should make me feel distraught, simply causes me to feel thankful. Thankful for a healthy baby; for Gods ingenious design in creating breasts to soothe babies; thankful that I get to have her at all. And, then, my heart begins to hurt for an entirely new reason. It starts to twist and break for parents who struggle with an unwell baby. It’s been 24 hours, and I suspect it’s her eye teeth fighting to break free. The reality settles on me that for some parents, it’s constant.
Today, I’m sending some messages to encourage those parents I know who just keep on persevering and choosing joy, amidst the pain. I’m praying up a storm that we may all be people who resist ask,”What’s wrong with her?” But instead, ask, “What can I do to make your day easier?"
I'm forcing myself to hold the truth in the forefront of my mind that I've already 'fixed it' simply by being present for my girl. You have too, Mama's & Papa's. Your presence is all your baby needs.
Thanks for reading, friends x
Something is hurting her, and I can’t fix it.
My faithful breasts aren’t working; my voice isn’t soothing; my cuddles aren’t quite enough. Yet, I am all she wants.
I wrap my arms around her, coaxing her towards my breast, encouraging her to suckle and breathe deeply. My mind races; Is it her teeth? Or, her skin? Maybe it’s that she’s overtired; Or, that the cold we’ve had is still bugging her. I ask myself over and over, repeating these words, "Shouldn’t I know exactly what’s wrong? Shouldn’t I know exactly what she needs?" I'm drawn a blank; the truth settles, I can't fix it.
I continue to run my fingers through her sandy blonde hair, praying words of peace. She suckles for a few minutes, then suddenly begins to scream again. I pass her to her Papa, yet she screams harder, throwing her arms back towards me. I'm all she wants, and I can't fix it. Mostly, I can. Most days, I know I am her comforter, and her safe place. Today, it’s beyond me, and for the first time, my baby cries and cries, while I feel helpless, hauntingly aware of the fact that I can't fix it. My mind scurries for solutions: food! Food always helps! Maybe she’s just hungry for actual food. I offer her favourites in quick succession; Avocado? Nope. Our old faithful blueberries? She throws them at me. Greek yoghurt will fix it! Ah, the floor is now white, and the cries continue to pulsate through my heart. Why can't I fix it?
I grab her close and take her down to her room. While I zip her into her sleeping bag, I try to speak calmly and lovingly. I lay on the bed in the darkened room, pull her close under my arm onto the breast, praying she calms and falls asleep. Eventually, her body goes limp, and her methodical suckling causes me to relax. For now, I fixed it. What should make me feel distraught, simply causes me to feel thankful. Thankful for a healthy baby; for Gods ingenious design in creating breasts to soothe babies; thankful that I get to have her at all. And, then, my heart begins to hurt for an entirely new reason. It starts to twist and break for parents who struggle with an unwell baby. It’s been 24 hours, and I suspect it’s her eye teeth fighting to break free. The reality settles on me that for some parents, it’s constant.
Today, I’m sending some messages to encourage those parents I know who just keep on persevering and choosing joy, amidst the pain. I’m praying up a storm that we may all be people who resist ask,”What’s wrong with her?” But instead, ask, “What can I do to make your day easier?"
I'm forcing myself to hold the truth in the forefront of my mind that I've already 'fixed it' simply by being present for my girl. You have too, Mama's & Papa's. Your presence is all your baby needs.
Thanks for reading, friends x
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