Late Night Comedy
A quiet wave of panic washed over me.
I had been nursing my week-old newborn. He was a picky eater, demanding his meals during drowsy strolls around the house; food that snuggled in a comfy chair was of no interest. He was my tiny miracle baby, and I was a pushover mama head-over-heels in love with her boy… so I obligingly paced while I nursed him. As my second child, and a year and a half younger than his brother, newborn care seemed so much less intimidating the second time. I wasn’t a brand-new mama anymore, and I didn’t think I was quite as overwhelmed.
This particular night, I may have been more than half asleep as I paced the bedroom. Eight steps across the room, eight steps back. A sleepy thought crossed my mind, “While I’m up, I ought to check on the baby.”
I peeked into his crib, set up right next to my bed. To my utter horror, it was empty.
And so the quiet wave of panic washed over me. In that instant, nothing else in the world mattered. My baby wasn’t in his crib. Where else could he be? Who took him? Could I have somehow brought him into bed and forgotten?
I didn’t yet want to scream and wake my husband to help me, so I frantically pushed my pillows and blankets aside on the bed, looking for the tiny form of my sleeping son. He wasn’t anywhere. I fought to stay calm in the midst of crushing panic, trying to organize my thoughts into a reasonable explanation. Had my husband brought him somewhere else earlier in the night? He wouldn’t have left the baby in the playpen in the living room, would he?
I was sobbing, shaking, reaching out to wake my husband when I suddenly noticed the tiny baby cradled in my right arm, peacefully enjoying a midnight meal.
I’d lost my newborn…while nursing him. Sobs became stifled laughter that shook my body just as hard as the terror had. I realized, as I placed my son safely in his crib, that I took myself too seriously before motherhood. I relied a little too heavily on the natural sharpness of my brain and my intense dedication to do things well. Before my first son, plenty of people warned me about the obstacles and the emptying that motherhood brings. So many that I girded myself, preparing to embrace the weight of this eternal endeavor with all the solemnity it deserves. And all those challenges have been what I expected.
What has surprised me is how much I laugh.
I, the girl who took myself seriously and wanted everyone else to do the same, have learned to laugh at myself. I thought of myself as quite dignified before motherhood, thoroughly competent at everything I attempted. As a mother, I've called my own mom for help in extremely undignified moments of chaos, now realizing how much I don't know what I'm doing. I giggle as I wash a poop-covered infant off in the sink of a public restroom, unable to resist humor in a mishap that would've been mortifying if it weren't so hilarious. I still grin remembering that night when my sleep-deprived brain couldn't find the baby cradled in my arm. This journey of motherhood has offered me many unexpected gifts, but one of the dearest is laughter.
RACHEL GUERRERO is raising bilingual, multicultural boys in SE Asia. Her hobbies include writing in spare moments and always having a few creative projects in process (with more mentally tucked-away-for-later in her slightly-sleepy brain). On the internet, she can often be found sharing her thoughts on joyful, adventurous homeschooling and parenting at "Seven in All" on Youtube or on the Instagram account @seveninallfamily