In a small house in a small city, it is bedtime for the boys who are six months and almost three years old. Together the family heads upstairs. Husband helps the toddler brush his teeth and put on his dinosaur pajamas while Wife changes the infant. When both boys are ready, the whole family piles onto the twin bed. Husband reads a few story books aloud, using silly voices for the animal characters. He kisses the boys and leaves the room—his part in the evening bedtime routine is complete.
Wife arranges herself and the children on the bed. The baby is placed on her left breast to nurse, while the toddler is cradled in her right arm. The baby sucks sleepily. The little boy winds his fingers through his mother’s hair—his own bedtime comfort ritual. Both children wiggle and shift as they release the last of the day’s energy. There is the sound of Husband’s footsteps heading back down the stairs.
Thirty minutes pass. The baby has drifted off a few times but, as soon as the nipple pops out of his mouth, he startles awake and frantically gropes for it. The toddler’s fingers have created a nest of tangled hair that begins to pull on Wife’s scalp. She hears the TV switched on in the living room.
Sixty minutes pass. Both boys’ breathing has become slow and regular but neither has dropped into the heaviness of deep sleep. Wife’s left nipple is on fire as the tips of tiny, razor-sharp baby teeth pierce her skin. Her scalp is throbbing, but she fears that moving to extricate the toddler’s fingers will wake them both, causing the whole delicate operation to begin again. Wife exhales slowly and attempts to relax her clenched jaw as the theme song from her favorite TV show rises through the floorboards.
Ninety minutes pass. Wife desperately needs to pee. Her right shoulder aches and her left breast has gone numb. All she desires is to have a few minutes of quiet, child-free relaxation time before she passes out from exhaustion herself. She hears her husband moving around in the kitchen and hopes he is doing the dinner dishes.
Finally, the two tiny bodies are still. Wife veeerrrryy carefully extricates herself from a tangle of tiny limbs. Holding her breath, she transfers the infant to his own bed. She pees, finally, grateful to be alone in the bathroom for the first time today. She examines her nipple in the mirror and applies some balm to the places that have been rubbed raw. She puts the balm on her itchy C-section incision as well. She sees the rat’s nest of tangles on her head and notices the clothing the little boy wore today lying on the floor but does not have the energy to do anything about either situation. Wife locks eyes with herself in the mirror and braces for the next part of the evening.
She walks quietly down the stairs so as not to wake the children. She glances into the kitchen (the sink is still full of dishes), steps her way through the gauntlet of legos and tiny trucks that remain strewn across the living room rug, and makes herself small at one end of the sofa so as to not draw the attention of Husband. She notices that he has made himself a snack and has poured a single glass of wine.
Oh how Wife would love a glass of wine! She hasn’t had more than three or four straight hours of sleep in months—actually, it’s been nearly three years. She spends most of her waking hours with a child on her breast, in her arms, grabbing her hair, pulling on her glasses, biting her nipple, demanding her attention, asking for more. She can’t recall the last time she was alone in a room, watching TV, silently sipping a glass of wine.
But Wife hopes to go unnoticed, so she forgets the wine and keeps her eyes glued to the TV. Her favorite show is about to end (she hasn’t seen a full episode in ages), and she knows that eye contact with Husband will be taken as an invitation, an opening. She feels him looking at her from the other end of the sofa, the heat and weight of his neediness is as palpable as the children’s. Wife continues looking straight ahead.
Husband sighs heavily. Wife pretends not to hear. In approximately four hours, the infant will stir and need soothing, or the little boy will wake and need help going potty. If she goes to bed right now, she may get a few blissful minutes of REM sleep before duty calls. She tries to remember what it’s like to dream. Husband does not wake up with the children at night because he must be rested for work at the office the next day.
Husband sighs again. Wife’s body is rocked by a wave of emotions—rage, exhaustion, loneliness, anxiety, guilt. Her muscles stiffen. She hears a roaring in her ears.
Husband clears his throat. The effort to resist is too great. Wife turns, slowly, reluctantly, and makes contact. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion, her face a mask of stress and overwhelm, her body is folded in on itself protectively.
Husband wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to get it on?” he asks.
You’re not alone. Reach out if you’d like to talk about it.