Bad mommy

I am (completely irrationally) feeling like a bad mom tonight. For the second night in a row, I was not home to put Elise to bed. I barely saw her today. I rushed her home so that I could get everything ready to go see Holly at the hospital. I had planned on sitting and playing with her for a while before I left, but instead I left her to crawl around on her own while I did a bunch of meaningless busywork -- emptying the dishwasher, sweeping the floor, wiping the counter. None of that stuff meant anything. It could all have waited.

I know I'm not being rational. Elise had fun crawling around, chasing after the cats, playing with her ball and her toys. She didn't have a clue that I was being neglectful. She is a happy girl. And I know that not putting her to bed for a couple of nights doesn't make me a bad parent. Holly needed me at the hospital, and Elise's needs were being met by her Grandpa who loves her as much as anyone could ever love another person.

But I miss her. I miss her face and I miss the way she nestles herself into my arm when she nurses at night just before bed. I even miss the way she snakes her one arm behind mine and ruthlessly pinches and pulls at the skin on the back of my arm.

I think this intense need to be part of her every moment started not long after Elise was born. Holly was able to stay home with us for a couple of weeks, but then she had to hit the road again. Elise was already showing some small signs of reflux by then, and I now realize that I was spiraling into some pretty significant postpartum depression. I think I dealt with that by becoming hyper-vigilant and obsessed.

The reflux was rough. And Elise was such a trooper. I remember one night so clearly. She was having such a hard day, and I was trying to put her to bed. She had been crying for hours and I was wiped out. I probably hadn't eaten more than a handful of pretzels in 2 days, hadn't showered in at least 3, hadn't slept in longer than I could remember, and probably hadn't spoken to another adult in a week. I had finally just gotten her to calm down. She was still doing that shuddering breathing babies do when they've just stopped crying really hard and are trying to pull themselves together. I looked down at her, and she gave me the biggest smile. What a great kid that she was smiling after all that.

That's why I need to be her everything. Because we weathered the storm together. Because I finally found the right medicine to make her pain go away. Because I'm the only person that she has seen every single day of her life so far. Sometimes it feels like such a weight on me. Not a burden, not something I don't want. But it's heavy . . . Maybe all parents feel this constantly on the edge of obsession and failure. Maybe this is how it's supposed to feel--this frantic, panicky love.