Perhaps in a peculiar way I feel immense gratitude from being shut out from the world. This is often my first thought as I look at my nearly eight-week-old son’s face while feeding him. In his nursery, with the help of a nightlight, I see his soft eyelids drawn over his round eyes, adorned by long eyelashes. This delicate image reminds me how the white blinds in his nursery shut the rest of the world out. His straight black hair nestles in the crook of my left elbow, making it warmer than it was five minutes ago. His tiny lips lace around a silicone nipple. Silence isn’t as unsettling as it used to be.

Bottle in hand, I hold him while sitting on a beige rocking chair at the far-right corner of the nursery. I glance at the clock. It’s 3:30 am. I think about how much of a blessing it is that he let me sleep an extra two and half hours. Technically, my shift starts at 1:00 am, so my husband must have fed him last around midnight.

I listen intently to his little sucking noises while staring down at his face. When the noises are consistent, I’m hopeful I can get back to sleep in about a half hour. While listening, I notice he has an eye booger in the corner of his left eye, but I’m reluctant to wipe it away because he may fuss. I’m the type of mother that will wait to use a nose spray on him because he doesn’t like that either. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of my son, but aware of how sensitive he can be in the early morning hours. Becoming a mother has changed my senses, I’m hyperaware of my son’s tendencies, I’m more careful, and I ask better questions when talking with doctors or acquaintances.

Unlike the rest of the day, this is one of the times when he’s truly happy. He loosely holds his hands together, letting some fingers interlace with one another against his chest. It’s times like this I feel as though I’ve been given the greatest curiosity I’ve ever known. When I feed him, I get to think. It’s nice to have thoughts. Something of my own. Something that doesn’t require me to get up off a piece of furniture for it to be deemed accomplished. I get to think and not question if it’s good enough. I simply have thoughts, and let them pass, not worrying.

As I sit in the rocking chair, I feel the pain that has grown in my body, especially in my lower back and left arm. My body and mind don’t have any ambition and connection anymore besides his happiness. As I stare down at his little square-shaped face with chubby cheeks, I think about my desire to watch him grow up, but just enough to interject his personality into my life without it being too troubling. Of course, I’m even more afraid of his toddler years. However, currently I don’t want to face many problems because I’m unprepared and unfortunately selfishly motivated by lack of sleep.

I glance up and look up to see some unused toys and diaper boxes collected in the opposite corner of the nursery. It’s too early for things to be tucked away in corners. He’s too young and so am I. I’m only 34 years old and he’s not even three months old yet. We both still have a lot of life left to live. There is still a lot of time for his things to collect within these walls. Though, I suppose a filled room is a room where self-exploration can thrive. Hopefully, for my sake.

Since giving birth, I don’t know exactly who I am. My self-love has faded and returned more times than I can remember. My life has become a mundane series of repetitive tasks. At times I’ve thought about doing something crazy, like not doing anything again for a full twenty-four hours so I can believe I have a personality left inside of me.

There used to be different versions of myself floating around. Each one offered a unique perspective of myself to other people. Some of them noting my desire for adventure, intimacy, entertainment, or independence. Before I became a mother, I desired alone time, now it feels like a need. I used to be able to do puzzles and visit the mall whenever I wanted, now I can’t do that as I have to try to follow my son’s naptime schedule. At one time, I understood these perspectives and could hold onto them, but now I don’t have a grasp on any of them. It would be understandable if it were because I felt tired, but I feel the need for an unearthly amount of boredom.

I feel terrible for my husband. He doesn’t see those parts of me anymore. He hasn’t seen me wear a purple ribbon in my hair for the last few weeks. On most days, he only sees me wearing pajamas and a messy bun. I don’t shower and shave like I used to as everything feels like a chore.

He also doesn’t get to see our son’s face when he stops eating around 3:45 am just to smile, showcasing his dimples. He also isn’t quite as good as me at getting to know how much milk is left in the bottle as our son drinks from it. I don’t have to check the side of the bottle anymore; I just know by looking at the amount of white liquid left over. My husband cannot do that.

I look at the clock again. It’s close to 4:00 am. My son is almost done eating two and half ounces. He’s slow in the morning sometimes, not because of his cleft lip, but because he’s too tired to suck at times. To wake him up, I must lean forward while still holding him, as this wakes him and gets him started eating again. Some mornings, I do this multiple times. This is to be sure he is getting proper nutrition because that is very important in the early stages of infancy.

Once I’m done feeding him, I sit him on my leg and hold his jaw line and try to burp him by patting his back. A loud burp erupts from his tiny mouth. Then I softly lay him back down so that his head is in the crook of my elbow again. As I’m holding him, I walk over to the dresser to change his diaper. He fights me every step of the way by wiggling and pulling his legs up to his chest.

Once the diaper change is complete, I decide whether to leave his arms in or out of the swaddle. After some thinking, I decide to leave them out because I know he will most likely take them out himself anyways. After this, I rock him back to sleep while he stares in amazement at the plain ceiling above never bothered by the fact he’s seen it before. Finally, I walk back into the bedroom and carefully place him into his bassinet. I warm up another bottle, just in case he may need it later, and then go to the bathroom to relieve myself.

A little later, when I turn the bathroom faucet off after washing my hands, I quietly get under the covers and pull them over my shoulders. I feel warm again. However, I soon realize I forgot to use the nasal spray and wipe my son's eye booger away. He’s asleep, I’m tired, and just got the most comfortable I’ve been in the last twenty-four hours, so I’ll wait. I tell myself I’m still a good mother, that I’m not afraid, and I’ll do better in a couple of hours. After all, the wealth of time for my son is only as good as the effort I put into being a mother and I plan on putting in the most though I admit I can be forgetful.

I pick up my phone from the end table and log the amount of food he ate in an app made especially for feeding. I’ll be back up again probably around 5:30am as two and half ounces only keeps him full for two hours, if I’m lucky. But there is no exact way to know for sure.

I’m able to keep an eye on him while he’s in his bassinet by using a different baby app connected to a camera that’s attached to the side of his bassinet. Even though I just put him down a few minutes ago, I make sure the swaddle isn’t covering his mouth and nose because I worry that he’ll suffocate. I also fear that standing up over him will wake him up.

I put my phone back down on the end table. I look at the clock. 4:11 am. Not too bad. My husband stirs and faces me.

“Was he having gas pain?” he mumbles.

He was a bit, but not bad enough where I felt it warranted drops, so I whisper, “Just a little bit.”

“Maybe you should give him gas drops just in case.”

“He’s sleeping now.”

“It shouldn’t wake him up too much.”

“I’ll do it next time.”

“Okay.” He turns back to his initial position facing the wall.

Some mornings I get lucky and don’t have to medicate my baby,, but I don’t blame my husband for the suggestion because gas pain is an unfortunate part of my son's life, but it should be gone in the coming months.

I look over at my son in his bassinet, he’s quiet and still. I check the camera app again. It confirms what I saw. His round eyes were drawn down and his little arms poked out from the sides of the swaddle. I close my eyes and think about how lucky I’ll be to hear the bird's outside next time. There also might be some natural light coming through the blinds in his nursery, so I won’t have to turn on the dreaded night light.

When it gets to be 7:00am, and it’s time for our shift change, there is always a large part of me that’s proud to be up to date on all of our sons’ actions and accomplishments throughout the night. From how much he ate to how he stares up at me while I feed him, they’re all significant. Though a small part of my mind lingers on the joyous thought of letting him go just long enough so I can feel momentarily foolishly invisible.