My brain is numb from large amounts of worthless,
oh-so-good-bad television. My shoulders
and neck contain a deep rooted pain from holding a new human—a pain that I have
only felt once before trying to peer across a sea of pretty men to taste the
ache of Erasure’s onstage Oh l’amor.
And, the front of my shirt has hardened from repeated exposure to dried,
leaking human milk. I am living the life
of mothering a newborn and existing as a non-practicing zombie. Today was a pretty good day. I thought about showering, and I discovered
that I could put on a cardigan to cover up my stains—this is wardrobe upcycling
at its best. At this moment, I am sitting here, consuming
a huge bottle of Topo Chico and listening to the silence of 3 sleeping
children, 1 slumbering pug and an exhausted husband. And, even with the continual undercurrent of
exhaustion, I feel lucky. My village has
provided and provided and provided. And,
this time around, I chose to accept the love.
Rewind to four weeks prior.
Jeremy and I were getting the girls ready for school. Baby Story was still in the intensive care
unit at the hospital, and we were getting into the routine of our new
normal. My days were spent attached to a
machine that would artificially tell my body to dispel milk into plastic
bottles of various sizes. When not
feeling the harsh tugs of the pump, I was transporting the milky goods to baby
boy 2-3 times a day. On this particular
morning, I was suffocating from life’s thick, heavy air. I felt annoyed with all I had to do, and I
could sense my husband trying his best to appease my (unsure and likely
unrealistic) needs. “How can I help?” he
kindly asked as I packed lunches. Let’s
make it clear that his daily existence continually puts forth energy to make my
life better, and my brain knows this. I,
however, chose snarkiness to accompany my purposefully curt words, “Usually a
mom comes and helps when her daughter has a baby.” “I don’t have a mom,” I said looking at his
sad eyes. “So, I’ll do this by myself.” I chose hurtful words, and he did not fault
me for it. As I reflect on that
particular day, I feel ashamed for indulgent pity party. I acknowledge that I am human, and my ego,
hormones and exhaustion reigned that morning.
Growing up, Mom assured me that I would always have my
family. I needed to put life’s eggs in
baskets weaved with genetic twine. Living
Queen’s mantra, she expected friendships to eventually bite the dust. She acknowledged when classmates would wrong
me and highlighted when friendship went awry.
During her last year of life, loving people tried to help. Trudy would come and visit, and Mom would go
into her bedroom. Dee offered to take
her to yoga to ease her pain, and Mom declined.
Fannie Mae would call and Mom would give me the phone. Day after day, I felt the affection of those
of who loved her. Day after day, I
watched her dismiss the compassion that was readily there for her. As the buffer to the kind and good world that
surrounded her, I ate the leftover kindness that was set before us. And, I indulged in the humanity. With life’s additional lessons (and the
recipient of poor night vision and neck wrinkles), I now understand that my
parents’ hard work did not allow for more than meeting our household needs. My parents sacrificed. They forewent the luxuries of companionship, recreation
and respite from daily responsibilities. They let me win. I get to be the champion of a full life that
holds lasting friendships, breakfast tacos and afternoon naps.
Fast-forward a decade and four pregnancies later and I clearly
see the full scope of my village. A
cooler sits in front of our door, and food magically appears from our lovely,
tall elves. These same people, I know,
are managing their own lives: growing
people in their tummies, managing ill parents, transitioning to new jobs, trying
to complete the second season of Orange is the New Black. Vehicles arrive at our house at the end of the
school day containing little people with our genetic make-up. Vehicles also come to take our children on
playdates to give us a reprieve from thrice the power of kid-energy (kid-energy
= 9X adult-energy). Messages are sent with
witty humor, heartfelt words and tips for unclogging milk ducts (put something
with vibration against the evil blockage—it works!!!). An entire suitcase arrived containing baby
clothes, lactation cookies, handmade art and gifts for all members of the
household. I awoke from a nap, and there
was tower of diapers and sea of baby clothes beside me. I am the lucky one walking on postpartum
sunshine.
Some in our village we have known for decades. You are our chosen family, and we love
you. Others have only had one conversation
with us. We look forward to making more
memories with you, and we love you, as well.
Regardless of our mutual history, the care is evident. We are
overwhelmed. Considering the increase in
my waking hours, I have spent a significant amount of time feeling your loving
hands and thoughtful sentiments. As I
look at the sleeping baby face next to me, I am reminded of the matriarch of my
village. I am grateful to you, Mom. Thank you for giving me life—a world beyond
endless work hours and hardship. And
to my entire village, your love fills my soul with the best stuff and my belly
with scrumptious food. Sweet dreams are made
of this—it just so happens to be my wonderful reality.
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