Oh, attachment parenting.
I love and curse you.
When I try to sneak off to a far corner of the house to nap, I am awakened by every peep my baby makes even when she is safely ensconced in the loving arms of her nanny, dad, aunt, or grandma. Every stir during the night jolts my exhausted brain as if it's made of glass. My breasts feel completely wrung out sometimes, and still she wants more. My body aches from lugging around her ten-pound weight, and yet I rarely put her down in a seat or swing. If I lay her down, it is to give her space to ride her invisible bicycle and to engage her into her new favourite thing, smiling.
I watch my little girls learn to attachment parent. Violet loves her butternut squash baby, and carefully cradles its bottom and little "head" as she wears it in a sling. I think she loves its weight and shape. Margot's baby is breastfed; this brings a tear of joy to my eye, to see my one bottle-fed babe lift her shirt to her dolly.
A weird little flu flew through our house over the past week, manifesting itself in different ways: barfing in Violet, sore tummy in Jude and Margot, and in 36 hours of aches, sweats, headaches, nausea, and chills for each parent. During my stint, I slept the whole time, waking only to nurse this gorgeous wee girl who spent the rest of the time with her sweet daddy.
When I finally emerged from my sickbed, I took a bath with this little one to wash the dust of illness from my skin. The pure bliss of letting her tiny self float in the water, gently supporting her shoulders, washing her hair, nursing her, and dribbling warm water over her body healed the rest of me.
It's a grueling gig, this attachment parenting thing. But I wouldn't have it any other way.