The Road From Morocco by Wafa Faith Hallam

Author:Wafa Faith Hallam [Hallam, Wafa Faith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CreateSpace
Published: 2012-07-31T06:00:00+00:00

Naming our newborn was easy. Robbie and I had already settled on Sophia months before. It meant ‘wisdom’ and sounded beautiful in every language, and both of us deemed ‘philosophy,’ the Greek word for the love and pursuit of wisdom, to be our higher calling. So naming our baby daughter Sophia was only fitting. Our choice of a boy’s name had not been as definite.

Sophia was born bald—that is without hair, but also intrepid and strong-willed. I decided to feed her breast-milk only, convinced that formula would not provide her with all the essential nutrients she needed. I breastfed her from the moment she was born and for an entire year without fail. If I was not going to be around for any period of time, I just pumped my milk, no matter how painful, and stored it in the freezer.

My entire purpose was to mother the little miracle that had materialized in my life and brought me a level of love and joy unlike any I had ever imagined. Gone were all considerations for any other obligation. I had completed my internship at the Guggenheim Foundation and was free to devote myself to motherhood with passion and dedication.

Robbie seemed happy and proud. Perhaps the baby would be able to reconcile our differences and help us grow into mature and responsible parents, I hoped. He had taken a week off, and there were moments of great care and tenderness after I returned home from the hospital. For the first time, he was the sole breadwinner and I thought that, in and of itself, would change the destructive dynamic of our relationship for the better.

Sadly, whoever believes that a new baby can heal an ailing marriage has no clue about the strains of sleepless nights and their effect on exhausted parents, especially those who have to contend with the distressing cries of a colicky newborn. Never in my life had I ever felt so crushed with fatigue. When she was napping, which she did only after long spells of heartbreaking howling, I could hardly keep up with my personal hygiene and most basic household chores. I was permanently sleep-deprived and cranky.

I had no help at home except on the few occasions when my mother, or my sister, who worked with Norma Kamali in Manhattan at the time, paid me a visit. My breasts were engorged and sore, my nipples raw and swollen, I could only sit on an inflated plastic bagel, and the rest of my body was still bloated and achy.

Alas, only a few days after Sophia and I returned home, Robbie’s demons resurfaced again.

It must have been around three or four in the morning, when Sophia, whose crib occupied a corner of our bedroom, woke up again, wailing on the top of her lungs. I had been feeding her every two or three hours and had just fallen into a deep slumber.

“Robbie, could you please pick her up and bring her to me?” I muttered plaintively?

He didn’t answer.

“Please pick her up, I’ll feed her here,” I pleaded, nudging him awake.

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