Counting

Ever since I've become a mother, and actually the day before I became a mother as well, I find myself constantly counting. When I was in labor and starting to feel the contractions, I would count through them. I'd count the seconds till it was over, or I'd count the number of breaths I took to get through a contraction. Or sometimes I'd find myself counting by twos for no apparent reason.

Then it was time to push, and the nurse would count for me. Deep breath in, then push for 10 seconds. Repeat 3 times. Or 4 times.

And then my beautiful boy was here and there was more counting. Count the seconds he is old. Count the amount of tries to get him to nurse. Count the minutes he actually nurses. Count the hours between feedings. Count the diaper changes. Count daddy's footsteps as he paces the hospital room floor, rocking baby back to sleep. Count each breath of the baby in the bassinet, each grunt, each rustle of the swaddling blanket. Is it time to count another feeding?

So much counting that it replaces sleeping, replaces eating. We come home from the hospital and I count the minutes of the car ride. And now I'm walking and mobile and I count the seconds, the minutes as I rock baby back to sleep. I look at the clock and count down to when he'll wake next. Only 2 hours at best. And the cycle continues.

I love my baby boy. He is precious and sweet and innocent and perfect. But I find myself consumed with worry and counting, every day. Even when I can get past the hourly counting, I find myself counting with dread to his next pediatric appointment when he'll get more shots, to his circumcision appointment when I'll have to try to console and comfort him. Will I be able to? Will I know how?

I look forward to the day when I can let myself relax a little and not worry so much about each little decision. I guess, until that happens, I'll be counting the days.