Slow Dancing With Your Son In A Dimly Lit Room
By: Leora Katz
Tags: Baby, Life, Pregnancy, Motherhood, Parenting

Slow Dancing With Your Son In A Dimly Lit Room

Everyone tells you new motherhood is excruciating and promises it gets better. But no one tells you what it’s like to slow dance with your son in a dimly lit room, sweet lullabies as the soundtrack. Leora Katz Follow Oct 1, 2019 · 6 min read

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// ramble on //

HI! I’M A MOM NOW. Have been for three months, hence the lack of writings. I have too much to say. So many half-written ramblings. The birth story exists in point-form… and I don’t think I’ll ever revisit it. There’s a whole piece about breastfeeding. I spoke it into my phone at 4am while nursing my tiny son. It’s real and raw and so full of pain, but it needs a lot of editing and I don’t really feel like it — even though I think it’s a subject that needs more attention cuz it’s f u c k e d. There are some thoughts about staring into my baby’s soul that I hope I do revisit someday. And a note called “Moments of Motherhood” where I’m collecting just that. But my overall report after surviving the very-very-very-real fourth trimester is: I’m… happy. My life looks nothing like it used to. I completely skipped summer, my favourite season. I have to stop whatever I’m doing to feed my baby every three hours. If I want to go out, it better be worth it because I have to spend $100 on a babysitter. My spontaneous lifestyle is a thing of the past. But… I’m really, really happy.

// slow dancing with your son in a dimly lit room //

My plan was to write about the pain.

To describe it in all its gruesome detail so future mamas (and the people who love them) know what they’re getting into. I wanted to write something that would capture how fucking hard pregnancy, labour, childbirth, recovery, breastfeeding and motherhood are so even one person could be better prepared than I was.

The notes are there. I’ve been taking them all along. Trying to formulate a good paragraph for months. But the most important element was always missing —

Inspiration.

See, you can’t force these things.

So for now, I’m not going to write about the pain.

Instead, I will attempt to write about one tiny moment that encapsulates what you have to look forward to. What everyone means when they say “it gets better.” When they tell you “it’s worth it.”

I will tell you what it’s like to slow dance with your son in a dimly lit room.

One night you’ll be slow dancing with your three-month-old son in a dimly lit room, sweet lullabies the soundtrack. You’d had a hard day. Too much sweat and blistered nipples and just moments ago he’d poked you in the eye with fingernails you should’ve cut today. Fucking OUCH!

You’d grabbed your eye in pain and said “ow ow ow ow ow” — then blinked it open and shut to assess the damage. Well, you could see.

So you’d pushed the discomfort aside — as you’d gotten used to doing since pregnancy — and looked back down at his tiny, beautiful face.

He’d stared up at you with a worried expression you’d never seen him make before. It had broken your heart and made you laugh and man, ain’t it crazy to watch a tiny human do something for the very first time.

“No no no, awww my baby don’t worry!” You’d gushed, with all the love on your face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay my baby. I’m okay! Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

And his whole face had relaxed. A soft-but-heart-bursting smile had formed on his lips. And you’d realized: he’d just learned about pain.

!

So you’d picked up his tiny body, which was already growing too fast, and you’d held him tight to your chest.

You were tired and sweaty and your nipples hurt. You were thirsty and hungry and your eye hurt. And you were supposed to be swaddling him to put him to sleep but instead you lifted him and held him close and started slow dancing to the sweet, sweet music.

And just like that — after a long, hard, exhausting day — you’ll be slow dancing with your son in a dimly lit room.

You’ll sway back and forth as he drapes his arms around you in that new way that melts your heart, and you’ll take a few deep breaths. As you exhale, the whole world will fade away — with all it’s speed and pressure and distraction — and nothing else will matter.

Nothing else will matter.

Earlier that day you’d thought your arms looked fat.

You’d been on an evening walk, but unlike every other time, your baby had screamed from the stroller. So finally you’d unbuckled him and pulled him close to your chest and walked down the sidewalk, baby in arms.

In your arms, he’d stopped screaming. So you’d held him tight and watched your step and whispered the world into his perfect ears.

This was the first time he’d moved down the sidewalk without a stroller or carrier. His first time free, exposed to the world. So his dad had taken a photo and you’d asked “can I see it?” and when he’d turned the screen towards you, you’d said…

“ew, my arm looks huge.”

Yep. In one second, your feeble mind went from whispering the magic of trees into your son’s perfect ears to thinking about how you needed to exercise. Pathetic, really.

But it’s okay.

Because hours later, you’ll be slow dancing with your son in a dimly lit room, sweet lullabies as the soundtrack. You’ll hear your husband arrive home with dinner, and you’ll keep swaying as his footsteps approach the room. His head will peek in the room, and he’ll find his wife and son dancing. He’ll watch for a few moments before you’ll whisper “you can dance with us” and he will.

The three of you will sway. And nothing else matters.

Your untoned arms? HA.

Nothing. Else. Matters.

The day before, your sister gave birth to a baby boy.

And the photos of your newborn nephew were doing more than making you fall in love. They were making you realize how much your own son had changed in just three tiny months.

And that was making you a little sad, making you understand what they mean when they say “it goes by so fast.”

big foot little foot | by Leora Katz

So even though you’ll be sweaty and tired and your nipples will hurt. Even though you’ll be hungry and thirsty and your eye will hurt. You’ll be slow dancing with your son in a dimly lit room and nothing else will matter.

No other time, no other place. Just wholly and purely now.

All the dread I had while pregnant. All the fear I had about childbirth. All the worry I had about losing myself, losing my life. If only I could have felt this moment.

Everyone tells you the first weeks are excruciating but promises it gets better. Everyone tells you the sacrifices are worth it. Everyone tells you it goes by so fast.

But no one tells you what it’s like to slow dance with your three-month-old son in a dimly lit room, sweet lullabies as the soundtrack. No one tells you that your husband will join and as the three of you, your family, sways back and forth — tears will fill your eyes and for the first time in your life, nothing else is happening in the whole, wide world.