Life with a newborn

The first few weeks with my baby have been exhausting; even though I love my child beyond every living creature on this planet. Yes; friends and family have told me that life with a newborn is difficult, but somehow they all made it seem so easy to be parents. Whenever I entered their homes, their little baby was quietly looking around the perfectly arranged and cleaned room, the mothers wore makeup and had freshly washed hair and the fathers greeted me with such enthusiasm that it seemed they had slept more than enough.

My babyboy is almost seven weeks old now, weights 11 pounds and is a crybaby. If he is not sleeping or getting food, he is crying. It doesn’t make it easier for me that I am alone with him most of the time. The first few days after leaving the hospital; I stayed there a week because of complications during birth – I didn’t even have time to go to the bathroom. As soon as I dropped my son he started crying as loud as he possibly could. Only when I carried him in my arms he seemed a little more relaxed. So, as you can imagine, sleeping was only a vivid dream of mine. The most I have slept until today have been six hours, thanks to my mother. I carry my baby day and night, he sleeps upon my chest and I give to him all the love I have. To be honest, I imagined my life with a newborn a lot easier. It did not cross my mind that he would not sleep in his own bed, that he would cry this much or that I’d have to carry him 24 hours. I saw all these women with their babies and they all seemed so relaxed; and to this day I do not know how they do it.

My home is a mess; I haven’t had time to wash any clothes or to properly clean the house in these seven weeks. I consider myself lucky if I get enough time to eat something and to brush my teeth. I wake up in the same cloths I go to bed to; there is simply not enough time to change. And I do not want to leave my babyboy crying at any time, eventhough he does cry when I hold him too, but at least he knows that his mother is there.

As the days passed by, I started to think that maybe I am not a good mother. Not nearly good enough. All the other women seem to handle their babies; and my poor babyboy cries all the time. I started to feel guilty for his sorrow, to feel helpless and powerless; I started to feel hate towards myself. Yes; I was exhausted. But while my little angel slept upon my chest one day, I started to think about my feelings. Why was I feeling this way? What made me think I was a bad mother, when I give all the love I have within me to my baby?

Today I am feeling better, eventhough there are still days where my baby pushes me to my limits, despite the love I feel towards him. But I came to understand that I had set my expectations way too high. Before my son was born I had this image of the perfect mother in my head. I thought that with the energy I have I will manage to keep my house clean, to cook for my husband and myself, to get in shape AND to nourish my baby with love. Maybe it were the naive thoughts of a twentyone years old woman, but to be honest, I really did not think it could be this hard. And with friends telling me their baby slept all night from day one, my expectations grew bigger and bigger.

There is no such thing as a perfect mother. And I came to realize that each baby is an individual and so different from other babies that it makes it impossible to compare yourself to other mothers. I did; and it almost broke me.

Today I know better, at least most of the times. I know that I am doing my best in keeping my angel happy and that should be enough. He needs my warmth, maybe more than I imagined, and I am willing to give to him all I have. This little angel may cry more than the average baby, he may not sleep more than two hours at a time and he may need me more than other babies need their mothers; but that does not make me a bad mother.

And when a little smile comes across his chubby cheeks I am sure that I am doing good. I am tired, but so happy to have my angel so close.

Jehona Thaqi© And if you ask yourself how I found time to write this; he is quietly sleeping upon my chest

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Do not cry, my boy

Dearest son; 

you are the greatest gift of all,

despite sleepless nights

and the times you cry 

– seemingly without reason; 

or reasons I do yet not understand,

when I feel so helpless and sad

and my silent tears fall upon your soft cheeks.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is holding you tight

to the body that suddenly became strong;

within the arms that do not hide behind the back anymore;

caressing your head with the finger that once danced upon falling hopes.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is here to protect you,

the way you protect your mother from sorrow and heart break; 

you – this small little boy – are the greatest gift of all,

and if this world falls apart

and all my hopes are shattered,

I will hold on to the memories we are creating.

Do not cry, my boy;

but if you do,

even fifty years from now,

come running to your mother

so I can hold you

and mend your soft beating heart.

– Jehona Thaqi© I love you Noar

An open letter

I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking  in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.

Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn grey and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.

Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.

Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.

Jehona Thaqi©

Too much

I talked too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my existence was bound to my words
and to the little spaces
between breathing and speaking.

I laughed too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if I was a puppet of happiness
and I danced to the rythm
of everyone’s well-being.

I cried too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my tears were the only proof of a crying heart,
and the way I grasped for air
was my way to say sorry.

But sometimes,
silence became the only language
I knew how to speak.
Sometimes, when you were far,
I forgot that there were words to say,
and stories to laugh at,
and songs to cry to.

Sometimes my heart ached
for you to call
and say that something was wrong.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Endless

I never knew
that love could
shrink
and expand
like the very skin of mine
– stretching into the forms
closest to a Goddess;
growing –
until it fits two lives within one body.

I never knew
that love could
expand
and shrink
like withering flowers
– drying out upon this harsh earth;
until their petals become one with the ground they sleep on.

I never knew
that loving was an endless story
of ups and downs,
of growing and shrinking,
of falling and standing up
– constantly giving
and taking.

I never knew
that you could get tired of love
or the absence of it;
but as soon as I felt love
with its utmost purity
– with its sometimes ugly smile
but its taste of heavenly sweetness –
I knew that love
would stay;
even if it is long gone.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dearest friend

image

This is for my dearest friend,
who waited for me in the darkest hours,
on rainy and cold days,
offering cussions to cry on, and enough coffee to stay awake all night;
the friend who said I had no reason to wipe away my tears,
as they were the war paint everyone needed to see.

The friend who first offered me chocolate boxes,
then, when my stomach hurt, pills against pain.
It was a friend who did not like to see me suffer,
I thought, 

while crawling into her arms, clutching my hands tight to her soft skin.

We only met behind closed doors,
for there I could tell her the most intimate and broken secrets,
while she kept putting paint upon my face;
saying I was a warrior;
saying I looked beautiful with stripes covering my body.

You see, she was a jealous friend,
all of me belonged to her,
and like a puppet I danced to her rhythm,
stayed awake all night, until my sight became blurry, and my mind too heavy to understand.
I loved her for how she held me, when others were asleep;
and I hated her for how she possessed me each night.

I will tell you her name, it starts with an I
and ends with solitude.

Jehona Thaqi© for those who fight against their own demons, please keep fighting. And whenever the pain gets unbearable please reach out your hands and ask for help. 

Wine

I sit alone, lonely,

the evening breeze dancing around my thighs, underneath the dress you loved on me,

flickering candles caressing my pale skin,

empty glasses of wine on empty tables.

I sit alone, lonely,

and I watch the city fall asleep on this sunday evening,

I watch lovers kiss goodbye

and broken hearts run home to their mothers;

for there is nothing a mother can not fix,

but I wonder why it had to be broken in the first place.

I sit alone, lonely,

the waiter kindly reminds me that they are closing,

I nodd, hanging onto my glass of wine,

almost empty,

but still there;

you see, I hang onto the sweet taste of love

and the bitterness which hides underneath your eyelids;

I remember your words, vividly,

and the way your fingertips danced upon my thighs

and the dazzling light of our veranda flickered upon my skin.

I sit alone, lonely,

the last sip of wine;

I see the blurred picture of you,

reaching for me, now.

Empty glass of wine,

but your lips against mine;

a familiar taste.

Jehona Thaqi©

Ghost city

image

City of ghosts
where the visitors are leaving, but leaving no marks,
dancing around these streets,
nourishing their empty stomachs with love.
This city is left hungry, yet not starving.

Suddenly there are no vistors at all;
like forgotten grave yards
somewhere inbetween the hills of empty lands
the street lamps flicker against the softly shinig moon.

A ghost city,
heart of mine,
forgotten,
yet untouched.

Jehona Thaqi©

Little bird

image

Little bird,
I see the fear within your eyes,
when you look at the endless shapes of clouds above your head,
while you try to fit eternal into boxes of space and time,
but you will learn that space can be filled by love, and love only,
and time is but a deception of mankind,
putting its passing at war with our minds.
What a cruel world you might think,
as it stands upon your wings and tells you to fly,
but your fragile bones have been designed to conquer these skies.

Fear not, little bird,
look at the sky as your savior,
for you will lose trace of this world,
but you will find yourself amongst the clouds.

Jehona Thaqi©

Sin

image

She had a heart purer than the deepest corner of the sea,
with a spirit just as dark and unexplored,
lurking through the empty streets somewhere within the rising of the moon
and the falling of dew drops.

Her porcelain skin, stained with painful beauty,
shone through each night,
brighter than the northern star.
While her hands cried for justice,
and her eyes screamed for love,
it was her voice which went unheared.

She wanted to tell you that she was not what you believed,
that the words you call her have marked her skin,
that for her the word tiger was no synonym for strenght,
while looking at her tiger wrists.

And when she cried at night,
and tossed and turned, with a heavy heart and tired soul;
you slept in peace upon the cussion of sin.

May you sleep well, then, my friend.

Jehona Thaqi © notes, fragments