Sleep.

Last night, my maniacal pumping regime finally paid off. I think it was somewhere around the tenth incoherent sentence and inexplicable crying fit that Jason told me to go upstairs and sleep. I had enough milk stored (plus the supplements we're using) for him to handle the feeding for the night, and since he didn't have to work the next morning and I hadn't gotten more than a two hour stretch in the past two weeks, I finally decided it was time to let go a little.

Maybe other mothers can commiserate. Especially, I think, at first--it's hard to believe your baby can be okay without you hovering over her.

Because Jason has a pretty physically demanding job and works his ass off, and I took time off specifically for this purpose, I've been taking on the bulk of the care-taking, especially at night. And while I might bitch and moan about not sleeping, a tiny part of me loves (or, loved, I guess, since we've already thrown the bottle into the mix) being the only one who can feed her.

So even though I desperately, DESPERATELY needed a night to sleep, I knew it was going to be a tiny battle letting go. And I woke up every two hours, still. I heard her crying once around 3 a.m. and it took every part of me to stay upstairs, to not intervene, to know that her father, the love of my life and most capable, caring man I've ever met, could handle it.

And I slept. This feeling of being rested makes all the hours spent hooked up to a sucking machine that makes me feel more like a cow than a mother worth it. I slept for seven (SEVEN!) hours. And now I feel so wonderful I swear I could clean the entire house and shower and straighten my hair and shave my legs and lift a building ten feet in the air.

Instead I think I'll just sit here and stare at Adelyn, who's sleeping in my lap, perfectly fed, cleaned, clothed, and changed even without my intervention.