And so away I went for the weekend, two whole nights parted from Botany. On the day I left, she woke at the usual time of 5am and I brought her into bed for a nurse and a cuddle. She curled up in the curve of my arm, her little feet pressed up against my belly. When she woke up an hour later, she crawled on top of me, gave me a big hug and jumped up and down on my abdomen, wanting me to sing the horse song (which I duly performed with one eye still melted shut with sleep.) My parents arrived shortly thereafter to take over and let me slip away to catch my early morning train. I kissed the baby goodbye and quietly left while my dad plied her with her favourite breakfast blueberries. As I made my way up to the station in the grey murky light of a Scottish autumn daybreak, I felt like crying.
The guilt feelings persisted for an hour or so during the journey north, and then I fell asleep with my head cracking against the window. When I arrived at my destination, I felt slightly revived and somehow, also somewhat detached from what I had left behind. I had lunch and a glass of wine without thinking about rushing home, or worrying about having to breastfeed. The afternoon took on a funny, formless sort of pace as I stopped checking my watch to see if it was snack time or nap time or bathtime. I slept late the next morning- very late- and read the Sunday papers while eating a bacon roll and watching television. Later, there was a long walk in the brisk sunshine, without a pram. I watched other children playing on the beach or running up and down the promenade and I thought- next time I can bring Botany. This time is for me.
I didn't end up taking the pump after all, being totally unable to recollect where I had stashed all the bits. In the end, it didn't matter. I expressed by hand when I felt uncomfortable, and that seemed to take the edge off. My boobs didn't explode nor apparently did the supply suddenly dry up. When I walked in the door this afternoon, Botany looked up from her book and gave me the most enormous smile. Then she crawled over and stuck her hand straight down my top, which is her code these days for wanting milk from mummy. And I obliged, of course, feeling very relieved to see her and to hold her and to rock in the chair, stroking her baby fine hair as she nursed happily for a long, long time.
My mother was sitting on the nursery floor, with her hair mussed and tired eyes.
"You look exhausted," I said.
"I am," she said, "I am completely whipped. We had a great time, but my goodness. It's very hard work. She was such a good girl, but she just doesn't stop, ever," and she pointed at Botany lying on the pillow in my arms.
"I know," I said "I did warn you the 5am wake up call is a particular killer."
"She's into everything! She just doesn't stop! She hardly napped! I don't know where she gets the energy," my mother said. "I don't know how she does it! I don't know how you do it!"
I'm not sure either, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I still feel massively daunted by this spirited baby, my parents' imminent departure, the tasks of parenting solo ahead, the gloom of the coming winter. I'm unlikely to have a weekend to myself again for a very long time. But I'm trying to learn to seize the moments of respite when they come- knowing now that I am all the better able to be a good mother for having had a chance to be good to myself, to give myself a bit of breathing space and to find myself restored.