Break point

The following is inspired by the prompt of: "Write a short story that reveals one of the unspoken struggles of motherhood". 

Her arms hurt, a stiff protesting soreness that mirrors how she feels. She’s tired of holding her baby.

She'd read the books, gone to the classes, but nothing had prepared her for this constant, round-the-clock contact. The 2-hour feedings, every 4 hours. The rocking and pacing. The co-sleeping. The carrying around – for of course, pre-baby, she'd chosen a sling over a pram. Her back's beginning to ache as well.

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"It's just that he's with me all the time," she'd said to Andrew one rare night he was home. He'd looked at her oddly. "Well, of course," he'd replied. "He's a baby."

"Yes, I know, but the thing is, usually you get to know people slowly. You meet someone, you figure out you like each other, you start spending more time together. But with a baby, there’s no getting used to this person, he or she is just there."

And you have to be with them, is what she didn't voice. No deciding first whether you even like this person. No way to change your mind about the whole thing.

"All the time," she'd whispered. But Andrew – social, outgoing, no-need-for-alone-time Andrew – hadn't heard. He was making faces at Max, babbling gibberish, totally absorbed in their child.

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Before Max was born, it had seemed sensible for Andrew to be starting his MBA now. After all, it wasn't like they'd be doing much with a newborn, especially one born in winter. What better time to be stuck at home studying when they'd be stuck inside anyway?

But she hadn't realised how this would quite literally leave her holding the baby. All day while Andrew was at work, most evenings while he was in classes, and all weekend while he did his assignments. Plus nights too, since she hadn't seen any reason why both of them should be exhausted.

Right now it seems like the most stupid fucking idea they ever had.

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She can't know that in a couple of years she'll be hoisting a toddler in one arm, carrying the shopping in the other, muscles strong and willing. That her sense of personal space will have disappeared completely, and she'll be OK with that. More than OK: she'll happily acquiesce to every request for a kiss and a cuddle. She can't know, now, that in 18 years she'll long for the smallest physical contact with her first-born, even a simple tousling of his hair.

All she knows is that her arms hurt from the constant weight of a baby and she’s desperate for some space. 

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It’s 6 pm, Andrew's not home, she's just managed to gulp something down and shit it's time to feed Max again so they can both be in bed by 8 and she can have some chance of 6 hours sleep before the sun and her son force the next day to begin.

She looks at Max, lying in the baby bouncer.

She can't do it. Abruptly, she leaves the kitchen, walks to the living room, turns on the TV. Watches a whole episode of Doctors, a soap she doesn’t even like, but it’s such bliss to just sit there for a whole 30 minutes, alone, doing nothing.

Such bliss to escape.

The guilt hits when the credits roll. Running back to the kitchen, she finds Max exactly as she left him, gazing at the kitchen light.

She wonders what is wrong with her that she resents her own child's need to be held.

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You might remember me moaning a while ago that I was not a literary writer, and suggesting to myself that I try. Back then I used a writing prompt, and I've been thinking for a while now that this is a good way to force myself to go beyond daily happenings and my general comfort zone when it comes to writing.

I started the above back in March, but didn't finish it in time to submit it to the website that put out the prompt, and then kind of used this as an excuse to not publish it anywhere, which isn't really going beyond my comfort zone, is it? So, here it is.