Yesterday I stopped in a coffee shop with Willow. She was in her carseat, sitting there calmly as I prepared my tea at the counter. A woman approached the register, then bent down to look at Willow. She asked me how old Willow is.
“I have a one-month old,” she said. “He would never sit there calmly in a carseat. How long does it take until that can happen?”
She told me how she could never put her baby down and how she was getting desperate. “My friend is holding him right now,” she said “so that I could have a few seconds with the use of two hands to buy my coffee. I have a four-year-old, but I can’t remember how long it takes to get to normal.”
I told her for us it was about two months. And I told her about the expensive bouncy seat that gave me at least a few minutes respite, even when it was difficult.
“I’ll buy anything, I’ll spend anything, at this point,” she said. “Even 15 minutes would be enough to get something done.”
It wasn’t very long ago I was in her shoes, and now, suddenly, I’m on the other side. I don’t feel we are fully out. I still look at my nipples every few hours and stress over the shade of pink – is it indicative of continued thrush or am I back to normal? But they are definitely in better shape compared to our low point, I can put her down for periods, I can even leave for an hour or two. I’m starting to be able to do a few things that I enjoy.
Life is more enjoyable, more fulfilling. In that sense, we’ve made it through.