If there was ever a time for Nike's slogan, it's now, four-ish weeks since Monroe's birth and (what sometimes seems like) an infinite number before I'll be mentally whole again. Getting out of bed the morning seems a task of laughable impossibility; your typical everyday chores, akin to the last miles of the Ironman. Sunday was a low point; I could count the minutes I felt both awake and smart enough to spell my name on my baby's fingers and toes.
But somewhere I reach for a shoe company slogan, a metaphysical mantra, and I am, creakily and sleepily, just doing it. I get up in the morning around 6 when Jonathan leaves for the Army to let the chickens out, water the tomatoes, change a diaper or two, before falling back into scattered breastfeeding sleep. I get up again at 9, though my head still aches, I make breakfast, I check my emails, I read books to the boys.
The more I just do what I want to be doing -- wash dishes, pick tomatoes, dig up blackberry vines, make coffee instead of a long, frustrating, expensive trip to the coffee shop, bake cookies, make dinner, go running -- the more I am able to just do it. The more I wake up, the more I have energy to wash, dig, run.
While I do I listen to the radio, I read, and slowly my mental energy builds too. I plan a chapter for the book on how hard it is for mothers to recover after birth, and how the paternal (in a bad way) corporate system in the U.S. is SO not helping us with that. I am a little angry, a little achy, but my eyes are wide open, and it is good.