The Mom Salon | February 2022

Birth and the Black Heron

By Colleen Tirtirian It’s 4 a.m. and I am sitting in the corner of the room in an armchair. My son is in my arms and he is getting closer to sleep. I will myself through each moment of rocking him as I fight heavy eyelids. The ache in my body is deep and I feel it in every crevice of this newly complicated body I inhabit, likely a result of the hot incision on my low abdomen a mere week prior.

After what feels like an unbearably long time, I maneuver my way out of the chair the way a contortionist would. “Please be asleep,” I whisper.

His eyelids open a sliver and I rock him some more, standing at the crib.

When I am finally certain he is asleep, I lower him down next to his sister.

I heave a sigh of relief as his eyes remain closed. Asleep. At last.

I tiptoe backward, my eyes on the crib — my bed, a mere two feet behind me. I reach my hand back for bed and lower myself, my eyes still fixed on the sleeping babes. My head is a mere inch from the pillow when another set of eyes catch mine. My daughter. Instinctively, I am back at the crib and lifting her out for her feeding. I hobble my way back to the chair in the corner of the room, hoping that this time, she will latch.

I curse myself as I slowly lower into the chair; the one that I purposely chose so that I would not fall asleep in it. I make a conscious decision with each feeding not to get too comfortable. No more feedings in our cozy bed, no. Not after that last time when, in my sleep-deprived haze, I woke up thinking a baby should have still been in my arms; panicked, I searched the sheets, certain I had done the unthinkable. “Oh thank god,” I whispered when I realized both babies were in the crib.

I sit in the simple chair and attempt to feed her. No latch. I carry her out of the room and to the kitchen. Time to mix some formula. When I am sure she is full and content, I put her back to bed. Just as I am entering a restful sleep, my son begins to cry out. And the cycle begins again.

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