Sugar beans.
2 a.m. is the roughest feeding with a two-week old who hasn’t yet fully figured out the rhythms of day and night. At 11 p.m., I still have strength after a good couple of hours of sleep from hitting the pillow at 8:30 or 9. And the feeds closer to sunrise bring the anticipatory hope of a new day and the long, peaceful rest that I know he will find in the morning while I drink my coffee and try to wipe the sleep from my eyes.
But 2 a.m.? Comes with the frustration of making bottles because my body never learned how to produce milk for my child… of blearily trying to not cross-thread the top while a fussy, wiggly baby becomes more agitated by the second. Of turning my head’s silent curses into vocalized shush shushes in mostly vain attempts to calm him until I can soothe the aching of his hungry belly.
2 a.m., when the world is watched over by the pale bluish light of the moon, seems to be the hardest for both of us — a new, exhausted mama and an overly tired baby who fights off going back to sleep like his life depended on it.
Only love sees us through until we both surrender to the exhaustion.
In the cold light, I live to love and adore you
It's all that I am, it's all that I have
In the cold light, I live, I only live for you
It's all that I am, it's all that I have
Four months ago, before any of this was even a blip on the collective’s radar, I started working in the front office of the embassy. I suppose I should say “most of this” — because, by the time I started, it was visibly clear that I was pregnant. I feel lucky to have found myself in a role that came along with an incredibly supportive team who welcomed and on-boarded me knowing full well that I’d be taking some time off pretty quickly after starting.
Three months ago, when all of this was somewhere else, my Belgian officemate became a grandma. I don’t know who was more excited — my co-worker or the stream of our other colleagues who dropped by our office to bestow their congratulations. The morning coffee meetup in the basement cafe and our hallway were filled with the joyful news and sweet treats passed around by the proud new grandma. And I learned from all about suikerbonen, the “sugar beans” Belgians give out to mark a birth or baptism.
Two months ago, before this was very troubling, Joe’s colleagues threw a joint shower for both the babies expected this spring in their working group. On a day when the sun’s warm rays whispered of spring, over bubbly toasts and Navajo stew and quiches and tarts, we found out just how much our little boy and the babe his colleague carried were joyfully anticipated by a team of people who have become more than co-workers. And we laughed as I remembered that a colleague who PCSed shortly after I arrived at post had told me that “Brussels is a good place to have babies” within 5 minutes of my introduction to her.
Just over a month ago, on the Sunday before the Thursday that this became very real and very troubling, a small group of women — my people — from the Tri-Mission threw me the most perfect baby shower I could ever have hoped for. The bittersweetness of missing family and friends back home was eclipsed by knowing to the very core of my being that this baby was being born into a much, much bigger family than I could have ever imagined for him. Of course there were gifts and sweets and advice but there was also something more than that — it felt as if I was being initiated into the Foreign Service mamas club. It’s a club where “aunties” abound and there’s always a piece of wisdom when it’s needed or a shoulder to cry on when it gets really hard to be so far away from home. It’s a club where collections spring up when a mama finds herself delivering earlier than expected on medevac or when authorized and ordered departures slam a family into a temporary space with not much more than the bags they could carry. It’s a club where neighbors’ birthday present stashes open up when the air freight doesn’t quite make it to post in time. It’s a club that knows that this crazy life we’ve committed ourselves to can be really hard at times but that also knows it can be OK and maybe even good with a little help and love from friends.
So open up my eyes to a new light
I wandered 'round your darkened land all night
But I lift up my eyes to a new high
And indeed there would be time
Two weeks ago, our little boy came into the world. 14 hours after we walked up to a mostly-deserted reception area and had our temperatures scanned before taking the elevator to Labor & Delivery. I’d say our birth experience was as normal as it could be given everything, but I have nothing to compare it to. Those first few days are a blur of the cocoon of the maternity suite and the first 26 hours at home before the midwife came and helped us figure out that our boy needed formula to keep thriving. The last week has been a little less blurry and we’re trying to figure out how to establish a routine.
I suppose there must be something easing up — there’s sufficient (albeit tiny) bits of bandwidth to fret over the fact that I haven’t gotten out thank you notes. I even found my hands itching enough to spend a couple of hours assembling our own version of “baby favors” which I’ll get to distribute only God knows when…
But there’s a sense of peaceful grace too — knowing that there will be time. For visits from friends, for getting thank yous and favors out, for adventures that we can only dream of. But right now? There is only time to love on the little human being who burst my heart open and made it grow exponentially.
Besides, there’s not much else to do. The sugar beans have been planted. And the most I can do is trust that we will be able to harvest them in good time.
A time to love
A time to sing, a time to shine
A time to leave, a time to stay
There is a time, a time to cry
A time to love, a time to live
There is a time, a time to sing
A time to love
Lyrics: “There Will Be Time” by Mumford & Sons with Baaba Maal © Universal Music Publishing Group
