Can a Mother Forget the Baby at Her Breast?

I bought this chair with some IKEA vouchers from a wedding gift.

Before Paddy and I got married, we spent a lot of time preparing him for ‘the big change’. No matter how much time he spent with me and Reubs, he still went back to his university room at the end of the night, slept in his cosy single bed and got up to the sound of, well, nothing. Even when he snoozed his alarm one too many times and got ready for the day in a frenzied state, the soundtrack to his frenzy was silence. He had pockets in his days to think and pee alone. And while no one was more qualified to take on a Reb and Reubs, we both knew it would take some adjustment for him. “Your parenting is about to become 24/7,” I warn him, with all the smug wisdom you’d expect of someone who, up until this point, has been parenting solo and isn’t afraid to wear the badge of honour to prove it . 

Enter: Paddy, married and thriving. And Reb, married, feeling claustrophobic and irritable.  

It turns out having a husband and father for my child is a life-changing dream come true, but it’s also a whole other grown human in my double bed that I usually have all to myself. Guess who has needed to adjust to ‘the big change’? Clue: it’s not Paddy. 

The Ikea chair was my way of claiming back a little space for myself. It’s a vessel for just a couple of minutes of quiet. The boys can be in every room I’m in, but when I’m sitting in the chair, it’s just me (but if one of them could squeeze into it, I know they would). I’ve never explained my incentive behind the chair to Paddy, other than saying I think it’s pretty, but when anyone came into the room and saw me in the chair with a book or Bible or my journal, they walked right back out again. But if they saw me doing the exact same thing on my bed, apparently it’s a welcome sign for interruption and family discussions. My hope was that it would become my ‘place’ for spending time with God. 

But then I got pregnant. 

And then I got really sick. 

For 9 months the chair was relegated to the role of clothes horse and the bed was promoted to the role of safe-haven. My days revolved around my next opportunity to jump back into bed. Much like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I lived my life from that bed. Reuben knew we did his homework there and my Netflix account got most of its use from there. 

And now, since Asher has come along, my days have revolved around my next appointment to sit in the chair. I’ve spent endless hours sitting in it feeding and feeding and feeding and feeding. I know that corner better than any other part of my house. The shallow cushion makes my bum numb, the bamboo hurts my tailbone and my reflection in the mirror haunts me, but I’ve never found the time to move it. 

At 4am the other night, I slumped into it once again after walking around the room with a restless baby and sleeping for no longer than twenty or thirty minutes at a time. I’m not sure if sleep regressions are really a thing because Asher didn’t have much to regress from to begin with, but if they are a thing, we are in the thick of one. Feeling like my body might give up on me, I wondered why God wasn’t making this any easier and I exhaled, “I can’t do this anymore.” 

Despite my zombie-like state, a verse popped into my head, as though a message had just popped up on my phone screen. 

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion for the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you” Isa 49:15.

While I definitely can’t forget the baby at my breast (thank you animalistic bonding hormones that make me want to walk through fire for him), I know what it's like to wish I could. I know what it’s like to hear him cry out in the night, and to long from the depths of my soul not to get up again. I know what it’s like to wish that somebody else could feed him just this once. I know what it’s like to love him so fiercely but to so fiercely want just one. Hour. Of. Rest. I know, and every mother knows, the savage sacrifices we make and the moments we spend wishing we could tap someone else in.

But my baby needs me. So I get up and do it again. The same routine of soothing, feeding, swaying, loving.

I recognise it’s a privilege to make these sacrifices, and while I’m wishing these nights away, there’s another woman out there who would take them in a heartbeat. It turns out God knows what it’s like for both of us. 

As I relentlessly care for this baby, He relentlessly cares for me. But He doesn’t wish he could tap out. He tenderly comes every single time and He is never exhausted by me. He is committed and He refuses to forget. When I’m at the end of myself, there He is, giving me His grace and dropping His words into my mind when I need them most. 

I guess God had plans to meet me in this chair after all.

“As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you” Isa 66:13.