At one month old, you don’t want to be anywhere else except on our chests. I don’t blame you. If I didn’t need sleep, that’s the only place I’d want you as well.

I strap you to my bare (bra’ed) chest at 7am and throw a wool coat over us to take you down the block in the early fall weather. It’s turned cool since I birthed you but I’ve yet to change out all my summer clothes for fall—not sure what fits me anymore now that a new heft has found my hips. My stomach has contracted but those curvy parts may remain soft and more luxurious than they’d been before when my body was only mine.

We’ve been up since five and you’re fussy enough that I finally concede to my wakefulness, so I walk you outside to stop your crying. Somehow you know the difference of being walked around the apartment in your soft fabric carrier and being walked down the block. You must know the feeling of fresh air. Halfway up the street towards the coffee shop you fall asleep, you require effort, but it doesn’t take too long. You help me leave the house.

I use your burp cloth to wipe oil from my chin as I eat a lukewarm egg wrap that I meal prepped in August over your tiny head while you sleep and we rock in the chair. I meal prepped for this exact reason, not knowing, while you were still in my belly, what it would be like to not have time to pour cereal, to not have time to brush my teeth amidst the more pressing matter of you. Anyway, everything is a napkin now, your burp cloth, my shirt, your swaddle, your onesie—whatever is in arms reach.

I’ve never cared less about fluids on fabric. My breast milk is all over this apartment.

One month of sleepless nights, milk-soaked everything, 3AM feeds where your dad carries you into the bedroom and slides you onto my chest like a gift I’m not prepared to accept. Barely conscious, I flutter my eyes open and closed and smile at your sweet sounds while I dream of long-lost uninterrupted sleep.

One month of studying your face and cooing over your expressions and being madly in love, of gazing into your eyes with amazement as you gaze at the world with your own fresh wonder, even though you can barely see yet.

TV doesn’t interest me in the same way it used to before you. It can’t hold my attention the same, it can’t compare. The most fantastic story I’ve ever encountered is unfolding before me, made of my own blood and with tiny features resembling my husband, and eyes bright to take in everything for the first time. What else could I possibly watch when nothing is as entertaining as you.

But we still play TV day and night as the soundtrack to our newborn bubble. As big as the world now feels, I am also exceedingly claustrophobic. Particularly when you refuse to leave my chest, lest I pull you from me and elicit your wild, deafening cries.

As a result, I’ve learned to pick up anything with my toes.

Multitasking is a myth we’ve debunked, except for the newborn parent who requires such concurrence. A breast-feeding parent in particular possess the capacity to do anything while feeding their infant—brushing their teeth, cooking, eating, walking down the street. A physical feat necessitated by life itself. I am a superhero.

One month of pure bliss, of total anarchy, of being chained to the rocking chair while you suck my nipples raw. I’ve never given my body to someone else so completely.

Kissing your sleeping head nestled into me is the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known. I can’t wait till you’re old enough to laugh so I can kiss your belly and tickle your toes and make you giggle. I thought I knew how great this romance would be, but still I wasn’t prepared, not at all.

Only one month ago you were just an idea, and now I can’t imagine my life without you. As hard as this is, I have no interest in that life, that pre-you existence, even while I miss being an adult without such massive responsibilities, even while I miss walking freely through my apartment without you strapped to my body or gasping at my breast, it does not compare to this unspeakable love rooted deep within me, a most guttural place.

And now onto month two…

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I was criticizing myself for losing precious hours of my day googling stroller reviews and plastic free diapers and non-toxic infant mattresses. All things I was attempting to add to the baby registry my husband and I were assembling, and it felt trivial to be “wasting my time on that when I ought to have been working.” This was also on the heels of my first trimester which was comprised of days spent pulling myself out of bed and struggling to manage the simplest of tasks. So I already, baseline, felt like I had not been doing enough for months.

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This thinking—this feeling of not-enough-ness—is not new for me. It far pre-dates my pregnancy as I spent a majority of my adult life thinking I wasn’t accomplishing enough, and feeling guilty whenever I narrowly allowed myself to rest. (There is something here too about recognition equating to enough-ness, even if I was producing a lot, if it wasn’t going noticed it didn’t matter—more on this).

But being physically forced into submission by a growing embryo is humbling to say the least, and in my experience, necessitates a re-think on what is “doing enough” since so much of what you’re doing in pregnancy is invisible work—even to yourself. The body is producing at a clip the mind can’t comprehend and to let that go unacknowledged is to be in some sort of denial.

If we measure productivity only by what is visible, how do we account for the immense productivity of creating a human being? And for that matter, creating anything at all, since so often the creative process begins in the mind and happens in the quiet hours between sessions at the computer or in the studio.

Another word for productive is fertile, and when you look up “productivity” you’ll find one definition relating to the fruitfulness of soil or land, second to the more colloquial definition related to the efficiency of workers—the word itself, grown industrialized and favored that way. And in an age of gig working and content producing, I would venture to guess for most people (myself included) productivity has become, conscious or unconscious, a measure for worth. Level of output the barometer for individual value. Quantity ever amassing and outweighing quality.

All to say, when my friend and I were on this call where I was lamenting about how much time I’d wasted researching baby items and making registry decisions, and how dumb that was when I had “real work” to be doing. I had a small epiphany.

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It was such a simple thing to say and it sounded stupid coming out of my mouth, but my friend reacted so sincerely and held the sentiment for us both to consider a little longer. The thing about helpful slogans is they often are simple and cliche, and this one I’d made up was no different. It was silly, yet sound, and held for both of us a piece of permission we needed.

I was going to spend this same amount of time looking for things for my baby no matter what. The research wasn’t optional, the task was a necessary one. The only real time wasted was the time spent feeling guilty and “should-ing” on myself that there was something more valuable to do. An hour spent comparing smart tech vs low tech gear is an hour spent, whether it happens now or later (we opted low-tech by the way on which I’ll happily share my opinions another time).

My understanding of productivity and value matters because it shapes my perception of time—widely understood as one of the most precious things we have. And as I venture into the territory of parenthood, I really want to maintain the hard-won and scarcely-maintained perspective that the present moment is the one that really matters because it’s the only one we have.

Amidst our predominant American culture of “work hard now so you can rest and enjoy life later,” the lovely little slogan of TIME IS TIME, is a counterpoint. Reminding me that each moment is as valuable, as precious, as mundane, as extraordinary as the next—it is all a gift and it is all fleeting, and what matters far more than what I may be doing, is how I may be while I do it.

This will be leading me into a post about technology and attention as it relates to parenting (and relationships in general) — a favorite topic of mine to explore.

For now, hopefully this leaves you with a little bit of permission as it has for me. Time is precious yes, and it’s as abundant as I believe it to be.

Until someone pushes you through and that someone is your unborn child who you’ve never met but have grown and housed and felt moving inside your body for the past 4-5 months.

Waiting to give birth is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced in my life and feels nearly impossible to put into words. Because everything else I’ve ever waited for— acceptance letters, text messages, grant and residency applications, my wedding, my period, my birthday, for vacation to start, for school to start, for Christmas morning, for my first kiss, for my wedding day, for my career to take off in just the right way—none of these things have been permanent, or irreversible, simultaneously certain and unknown, or quite so transformative as the way I know bringing a human being into the world will be.

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Every feeling that passes through me, every cramp or ache feels like it could be the beginning of the next chapter of my life. Or it’s just gas.

I am gonna give birth, sometime, in the next week and a half. There is no question. I don’t know when and I don’t know how and it’ll be the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me, and all I can do in the meantime is nothing.

And by nothing I mean eating spicy foods and going for walks and bouncing on the yoga ball and having sex when I feel like I can physically manage it, and trying not to stress about what still needs doing—all of which apparently might help naturally induce labor. Or might not, they can’t really say for sure.

“I switch between these big energetic, productive bursts, and feeling like I can do absolutely nothing” I said to my friend on a call today. The energetic bursts could be nesting hormones which is a sign of pre-labor. The extreme fatigue could also potentially be a sign of pre-labor. As with most things that happen to your body during pregnancy, mundane or bizarre, they are all just part of the process.

Bleeding gums? Yup normal, pregnancy thing. Anything you can do about it? Nope, just deal and stop flossing I guess for a few months, your teeth are getting fucked anyway. Sudden onset of restless leg syndrome, extreme acid reflux, insomnia, fatigue, congestion, sciatica, all to be expected.

On our call, my friend reminded me to enjoy the nothing while I still can “because you’re about to always be doing something for a long time. Maybe it’s not so bad that you feel like you can’t do anything right now, maybe lean in.”

Someone else advised me a similar thing months back when he found out I was pregnant. He told me to enjoy doing nothing cause once you’re a parent, you won’t have that luxury. “And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Literally stare at a wall.”

Luckily I’ve found that late stage pregnancy makes it easier to indulge the impulse of nothingness. Some moments I have so little energy that I don’t even feel compelled to watch tv, I’ll just look out the window and rock in the new nursing chair, imagining what’ll be like in a few weeks when I have my baby on my chest. Or I’ll stare at my dog, my first born, and admire her beauty and her ability to do nothing all day long.

If you haven’t heard, the second trimester of pregnancy provides a much needed respite. Sandwiched between the two harder chapters of first and third, is a bright spot where things are easier and dare I say fun. You get your energy back, you aren’t nauseous, you start to grow a cute belly and feel flutters and kicks. You’ve likely confirmed your baby’s wellbeing, and you can “safely” start telling the world, should you want to.

This bleeds into the start of third trimester as well, but shortly after that 30 week mark I felt a steep energetic dip, and I was suddenly zapped of all the inspiration I had to educate myself before baby comes, and now 38.5 weeks in, I can’t be bothered. I just keep telling myself, “we’ll figure it out, humans have been raising babies for centuries.”

(don’t worry I took the infant CPR and newborn care and breastfeeding classes and took notes).

I stopped reading Crib Sheet — that book by Emily Oster (no shade), the other day because it’s just too much information for me to integrate at this far along in pregnancy and I realized I’m actually not a logic and data driven person. I don’t really need or want to know the stats, or what the studies claim about how good or bad or effective or pointless any one childrearing choice is. I don’t need to know how likely it is that I’ll tear during labor or how much I’ll bleed afterwards, or what percentage of babies are breastfed or what percentage of babies start sleeping in their own rooms by 3 months. It’s too much information.

Because however likely it may be that I’ll have a good milk supply, or my baby will easily sleep through the night, I’ll still have whatever experience I’m going to have and it’ll won’t be the same as whatever book I read.

I know having community and hearing other’s experiences is vital—I know the point is to not feel alone or like a bad parent, but it’s hard to find the line between equipping yourself with helpful knowledge and over-dosing on influencer posts that make you wanna reach for “the answer.”

That line is one instagram reel too many—or in my case, one train-ride-home-from-my-weekly-OB-appointment’s length of reading.

I guess over-saturating myself with information is the opposite of appreciating the quiet hours before my life changes permanently and my baby is born. It’s the opposite of doing nothing.

And honestly, I think doing nothing is probably the most valuable thing I could do right now, before I’m through the portal and on the other side. That’s the kind of parent I want to be anyway, the slow, patient, trusting kind. Might as well start practicing now.

More soon (which might well be 2-3 months from now).

Hannah