A 37 day reprieve

The bursting of the newborn bubble 🫧 and a shower of responsibilities

It’s midnight and I’ve been bitten by the writing bug. I really should be asleep – Baby S has been asleep for 63 minutes and, thanks to the six week sleep-regression-development-progression and the sheer unpredictability of newborns, he may wake in two, twenty or one hundred and twenty minutes (I seriously hope it’s the latter). If the last five weeks have taught me anything it’s that you will feel better if you sleep when the baby sleeps. But alas, the writing itch has evaded me long enough for me to grab it by its antennae while I can.

I turn my face to the right then to the left, whispering salutations to unseen angels as I conclude my first prayer since giving birth. I was blessed with a 37 day reprieve from the obligation of salah, softening the transition to my new, radically altered reality of bleary-eyed nappy changes, spit-up stained t-shirts, and mounds of tiny laundry, all while recovering from giving birth. In that time the clocks turned back and the seasons shifted drastically – a hazy blur obscured by the newborn bubble.

Less than a week before giving birth I was admiring the crackle of ember-hued leaves beneath my (slightly swollen) feet. Now, as I emerge from several weeks of a topsy turvy sleep schedule, I’m greeted coldly by a backdrop of bare branches and the snow-capped Pennines.

Multi-purposing one of many muslin cloths. In this case, a light dimmer

Somewhere among the flurry of falling leaves and frigid morning frost, salah times shifted – a pretty drastic shift at this latitude. It’ll take a few days of repeatedly checking the prayer timetable to accustom myself to the current schedule. And perhaps a few more times for my new mum(read: scatter)-brain to process it.

The last time I prayed salah I was perched on a birth ball trying to subdue my groans through the intensity of what felt like back-to-back contractions. The end of nifaas feels bittersweet, like I’m bidding farewell to the whole ordeal of pregnancy, much-anticipated birth and tumultuous early days with a newborn. Coinciding with leaving my mums to return home, the culminating bath feels like a shower of responsibilities raining down on me, a jarring reminder of the real world.

The familiar serenity of salah enshrouds – therein lies the ‘sweet’. Sitting in my place of prayer as my baby sleeps a few feet away is an entirely new experience; his presence invites a sense of duty, a desire to lean in to my creator more than ever for the sake of my child. Although my eyelids feel heavy and my body craves lying down beside his sleeping form, prayer feels like a pocket of peace — an opportunity to slow down and be present. This child, utterly dependant, has clung to me through cluster-feeds and contact naps and I, in turn, have leant heavily on my mother. Yet through all our dependancy on the creation, salah is a reminder to reconnect with the creator, realign with our purpose, and reflect on the final destination.

“Allahu-akbar.” Allah is greater. Greater than wake windows and developmental leaps, greater than worries and what-ifs, greater than all the love that all the mothers who have ever lived have harboured in their heart of hearts.

And so, the midnight oil (heater) burns as I pray salatul Isha. Over my head goes the burka, beneath my feet the prayer mat. Baby S groans loudly, shifting his torso to let out a fart (who knew newborns could be so loud?). I raise my hands in takbeer, thus marking the end of my 37 day reprieve.

Alhamdulilahi alaa kulli haal
All praises are for Allah in every condition

Burning through frosty nights with a newborn