“Give me that right now!” Danielle shouted, prying the stick from his senseless hands. He screeched in anger. “You are going to help clean all of this off the window.” She reached in her purse, pulled out a wipe, and shoved it into his hands. He rubbed it on the glass, spreading the frosting around even more. I didn’t say anything.
“I should probably remove Owen from public,” she said as she stepped forward to hug me, as if I was in a receiving line at my own funeral. “You’re an incredible mom. And you need to call Tanya,” she whispered in my ear as we one-arm hugged.
“Maybe I will.” I tried to sound optimistic even though I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Well, look at you,” she said, applauding. Owen joined in on the clapping. And then Violet. Everyone was clapping at me. The doggies on the other side of the great glass wall all barked and jumped up behind me. I stood there like a fool as Danielle and Owen left, when one of the jumping dogs crouched down and took a huge dump on the floor. A PetSmart employee with blue hair and orange Crocs, who was incarcerated in the glass room, walked over with paper towels and picked up the steaming brown pile. The worker’s eyes met mine through the glass. We shared an ephemeral glance of solidarity, from shit handler to shit handler.
“Slippery needs food, and you can hold it,” I said to Violet. In Danielle’s listing of my mom superpowers, she left out that I knew the nearness to empty level of all foods in our house—pet or otherwise.
We walked to the checkout, Violet carefully clutching the small container of fish food, clearly believing herself to be “so big.” The cashier, a grandmotherly-type woman with blonde cotton-candy hair, lit up when she saw Violet. When we got closer, I noticed the woman’s gold necklace with a heart charm that held three diamonds within it, and her nametag, which read “Lucile.”
“Well, let me see what you have there, Sugar Lump,” Lucile said, coming from around her post to get closer to the fish food’s barcode—and to Violet. Lucile stood smiling euphorically, caught in some sort of fugue.
“Hold out the fish food so she can scan it,” I nudged for everyone involved.
“Aren’t they just the sweetest things at this age? I had three myself. Did you ever think being a mommy could be this wonderful?”
I halted. This old woman was enraptured by Violet’s charming youthfulness, but she was also light years away from the reality or responsibility of having young kids. Did she remember any of the challenges, or had time turned them into only blessings? I felt uneasy and like I might explode all over a well-meaning senior citizen, so I hurried our transaction before detonation could occur.
After Violet’s tear-filled campaign to hold fish food that she would’ve surely dumped all over the inside of the van had I not taken it away from her, I sank down in the driver’s seat and peered out the windshield, feeling gutted. Danielle’s comment, my own dark admission, and the glimpse into my future (thanks to a random PetSmart cashier/oracle) made me feel like I truly needed professional help. But what condition was I suffering from? In my mind, I was appropriately responding to the feeling of being overlooked and overworked. Anyone in my shoes would feel this frustration. Except for the moms that didn’t. Fuck. Also, they’re lying.
My phone rang. It was Marnie. I picked up, out of guilt since I declined her last three calls.
“How’s my favorite little girl?”
“I’m okay, it’s just been a rough . . .”
“No, my other favorite little girl.”
On any other day, I could brush off my mom’s noninterest in me. But today, it hurt like asphalt in a freshly scraped knee and all I wanted to do was scream into the phone at her, like the lead singer of a metal band. Instead I offered to call her back.
“Of course, honey. Make it a great day!”
Make it a great day? The fuck? How about you help me make it a great day by tapping into the godamn maternal spring inside your cold dead heart, Donna?
Once home, I put Violet down for a nap and prayed to the Sleep Gods that they would shine down upon me this afternoon.
There were endless things begging for attention in the kitchen—the trash to be taken out, the stack of junk mail on the counter, the kid’s artwork to be dated and saved, the PTA donation form to scoff at, and everyone’s breakfast dishes still on the kitchen table. I reached for Aaron’s abandoned cup of cold coffee and walked it to the sink like a zombie. My mind kept replaying what Danielle had said to me, like a looped audio clip. I could never do what you do. I could never do what you do.
Even though it seemed she had sincerely meant it as a compliment, what I heard was, “I would never do what you do.” My mind swam in a sea of judgment as I robotically tidied the kitchen. Was I doing this mom thing all wrong? Had I let motherhood swallow me up whole?
I was no stranger to self-analysis. It snuck up on me while shaving my legs in the shower or waiting in the car-pool line. I thought they were fleeting thoughts, mental chatter, but today I started believing something was really wrong with me. Modern motherhood looked so much like anxiety, which was which? Maybe Violet was an easy-going toddler and I had been too frazzled to see it until today, next to Owen. Maybe I was the unpredictable one— maybe I was the problem. Did I have some late-to-the-game post-partum depression? Was that even possible? And thanks to Lucile, I now worried that by the time I figured out how to really savor these days with my young kids, they would already be over.
Opposite to many of my friends, I adored the newborn and infant stage with Elliot and Violet. I felt like a goddess mother, nursing my babies to sleep, and huffing their pungent little heads like a Sharpie marker. I took baths with them and floated them around on their backs, their eyes twinkling as they looked into mine. In the early days, life flowed like a gentle river. It wasn’t awful at all.
And now, a part of me felt like I was drowning.
I needed to be saved.
CHAPTER SIX
Mother Mary
Google stared at me, waiting. I didn’t know what to search for, exactly, because I didn’t know what I was feeling, exactly. Was it post-partum depression? Was it anxiety? Was it motherhood in general? Or was it me?
I began typing “Orange County” and Google so graciously auto-filled “Breast Augmentation” in for me. Thanks Google, you dick. I erased it, typed “Post-partum depression” and hit enter.
The first result read: Mother Roots Counseling and Wellness Center. I liked the sound of “wellness center.” Like a spa where moms blow off some steam and do yoga together instead of have mental illness. I clicked the link. A breathtaking image of a large painted tree with a maternal-looking face carved into the knotty trunk welcomed me to Mother Roots’ webpage. Multi-colored leaves on widespread branches made up her wild hair. The graphic started to animate and the leaves changed colors, slowly fell to the ground, blew away, and then started to grow back bright green. Something triggered me hard. Shit April, pull it together, weirdo. I was half-laughing as I wiped tears away with my sleeve. Crying at a website graphic was a pretty clear sign that one needed professional help. But I knew from my friends that I wasn’t the only one brought to tears by basic shit since becoming a mother. So what was just motherhood and what was brainsickness? I watched the tree go through its computer-animated seasons for a good while before I clicked on the “Our Intention” tab.
“We see motherhood as a changing of seasons. As moms, we must rely on our roots to gather the nourishment we need to sustain ourselves, and our little ones. Let Mother Roots be part of your rich soil.”
My jaw dropped. I’ll take six of whatever they’re selling. I quickly clicked on the “Our Team” tab. Five marriage and family therapists were listed. I’d never been to therapy before, but the idea of dropping off my emotional laundry with someone else who could aid in sorting, washing, and folding it for me sounded fucking delightful. And the uninterrupted conversation. My desperation level saved me from stewing about any stigma.
I perused the accompanying therapist hea
dshots and bios. A blonde woman caught my eye. She looked to be about my age, with blown-out hair that lay immaculately against her bright yellow party dress and turquoise necklace. The woman’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks shimmered from what had to be perfectly-applied cosmetics. The only thing missing from her headshot was a curly handwritten font on a chalkboard, next to a succulent wall. What could she possibly know about the struggles of motherhood? There was a quote under her picture that read: “I am passionate about helping mothers tend to their needs, which often go overlooked in their role as ‘Mommy.’ I am a Southern California native who loves beach days and sushi dates with my boys.”
The sign of a good mother was at least a little bit of dishevelment, and this woman had exactly none. Her kids ate sushi. She would not do.
I combed the page for someone less perky and polished, not sure that was possible in Orange County. I needed someone who had battle wounds, like my left eye that was scarred with a permanent, Harry Potter–like lightning bolt of bloodshottery that appeared somewhere amid the years of sleepless nights, which had only ended the month prior. I didn’t want to be therapized by Princess Aurora when I looked more like Snow White’s haggard cousin.
I came to a picture of an earthy, make-up-less woman with round glasses and a scarf that looked like it was purchased in an actual rural village instead of an Anthropologie. Her name was Mary and her bio mentioned her passion for travel and finding commonalities with mothers she’d worked with across the globe. I wondered, what might mothers in other countries know that I didn’t? Wasn’t it true that they weren’t expected to play with their kids 24-7 like we were? And wasn’t it true that French kids sat obediently at the table for three meals a day without any whining or snack requests? Sure, they also drank wine at age five.
I kept reading.
Mary also had two kids, a boy and a girl, just like me. Mary’s quote read: “Mothers everywhere have a universal need to be mothered themselves—for someone to hold space for their experiences, challenges, and emotions, just as they do for their own children.”
My shoulders dropped and I sat back in my chair, letting out a loud exhale from deep down. I still needed what Marnie could never give me. Dammit. I felt understood in a way that I hadn’t in eight years, by the bio of an internet stranger. I was also pissed.
I didn’t need to look at any other profiles. I knew I would be safe within Mother Roots’s walls, specifically in the arms and at the bosom of Mother Mary, who would surely wipe my tears away with her long mousy hair. Mary was going to impart wisdom from the ages into my fractured soul. I couldn’t wait to tell her everything. I knew I had to act now, while I had a kid-free moment to make a coherent phone call and before I talked myself out of it. Something had to change and this would be the kickoff.
I abruptly dialed Mother Roots’s phone number, my heart racing.
Then I hung up.
What am I doing? We don’t have money for this. Maybe it’s just been a bad day. Week. Month. Years. Shit.
I called again. They picked up.
“I uh, I wanted to book a session with Mary. I don’t know if there’s an initial consultation or whatever. I don’t even know what I really need. I love my kids, of course, but I guess I just need to know if there’s something wrong with me.” I was saying too much.
The sprightly voice piped up, “We get this kind of call every day. You are not alone.”
“Okay, good.” I was genuinely relieved.
“You and your therapist will have an initial session and from there, you two make a plan of intention together. It’s very much a partnership.”
“I was on your website and Mary looked like a great fit for me.”
“Mary is lovely. And as such, she has quite a full clientele. She’s booking a month out right now.”
The losing jingle from The Price Is Right played in my head. Mary was the key to my sanity, and waiting thirty days to receive the secret to mastering motherhood felt unbearable.
“I was really hoping to get in sooner now that I found the balls to make the call,” I said, cringing at the fact that I’d just said “balls” out loud. Was this person going to write that down in my chart? “Has morals loose enough to say ‘balls’ to strangers,” it would read.
Luckily, the voice didn’t waver. “It’s hard to wait once you’re ready. How about I book your consult appointment with Mary for a month out and then also add you to a cancellation list? We’ll call you if something opens up with her.”
“Yes, please.”
I finally had some hope, mixed with impatience at having to wait an entire month to be tucked under Mother Mary’s warm wings. As quick as I hung up my phone, it buzzed. It was a text from Aaron.
Hey A.B.
Hey.
I wasn’t sure where we stood after a morning of tiptoeing around the ruins of the previous night.
I’m sorry about last night.
The Aaron I married had surfaced.
Me too.
I know it’s hard being with the kids non-stop.
He couldn’t possibly know, but I appreciated the gesture.
Things may be looking up because I booked an appointment with a therapist.
My phone ringer blared. Aaron was calling. I picked up.
“You’re seeing a therapist? Why?”
“Because I feel like I’m going to snap. I’m not doing this motherhood thing right.”
“Wait, what? But you’re a kick-ass mother.”
“Thanks Babe, but I’m not doubting what kind of a mother I am to our kids. I’m doubting what being that kind of mother is doing to me.”
He was silent. I could tell that he didn’t understand how those things could be separate. “Oh. Is this like that post-partum depression thing they talked about in childbirth class?”
“I’m not sure what it is. But it shouldn’t feel this hard.”
“What if you go to the spa and get away for a few hours? Maybe that would help. My boss’s wife does that sometimes.”
“Aaron, I need answers, not a fucking facial.”
“I just don’t see you as needing therapy. You are such a good mom. It feels like you’re overreacting. Did something happen today?”
I held the phone away from my face and burst into tears, silently. Aaron would never understand how my inner life and my outer mask could be so contradictory. He only took things for face value, and there were so many hidden parts to mothering. Since the minute Elliot entered the world, there was a conveyor belt of thoughts constantly running in the back of my mind, preparing for whatever might come next—the diaper blowout, the spit-up massacre, the inconsolable crying complete with hours of bouncing on a giant ball that took up the entire living room. As the kids got older, the internal mother machine never stopped, the fuel just changed from anticipating baby needs to toddler needs, then to big kid needs—not to mention husband needs. And then the outside pressures —“Don’t be a helicopter mom, but also, we’ll call CPS on you if you try to teach your kids any independence.” Motherhood was far too nuanced for the English language. There were no words to explain it to Aaron. What was the word for wanting so badly to be a mother, then the reality being so much more intense and constant than you ever imagined? What’s the word for “no pause button to catch your breath for eighteen years?” The Germans surely had a word for it. They had words for all the most fucktangular situations, like schadenfreude, mittelschmerz, and torschlusspanik.
I wiped my eyes and steadied my voice. “I’m going to see this therapist, even if I have to pay for it out of the money from my grandma.”
“A.B., you know I’ll support you in whatever you want to do. We can pay for it. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re broken or something. You are seriously such a great mother.”
I rubbed my temple with my thumb. It was all too confusing. Aaron was checking all the supportive boxes, but I wanted him to really hear me rather than cheerlead me into doing more of what was breaking me.
“Thanks,” I forced.
“And good news, I won’t be home as late tonight, just normal late, only an hour or so.”
I breathed in deeply, but didn’t exhale. No one was going to save me. Again. Always. Not Danielle, definitely not Marnie, and not even Aaron. No one was going to mother me. Except for Mother Mary, in thirty painstaking days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reclaiming My Time
Two weeks inched by like watching a child’s botched bangs grow back. I hadn’t realized how much I craved help until I was forced to wait for it. I mentioned my therapy appointment to Danielle and her response was, “Take that money and hire Tanya with it instead.” I didn’t say anything to Marnie about it.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when my phone rang. I usually never answered an unrecognizable number, but maybe this was my salvation.
“Hello?”
Violet looked up from the family of anthropomorphic bunnies she’d been dressing and undressing two seconds earlier, and ran over to me, repeating her life’s mantra.
“Mama, I needs something eat . . .”
I instinctively turned away from her request, put my finger in one ear and closed my eyes, tuning everything out so I could hear the voice on the phone. “Is this April?” it asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Jackie from . . .”
“I NEEDS SOMETHING EAT!” Violet’s screams dominated the air waves. I could hear nothing on the other end of the phone. I bared my teeth and desperately motioned with my whole arm for her to go back to what she was doing over by The Bunningtons, like I was in an angry game of charades. But the exaggerated motions only made her yell louder.
“I’m so sorry, can you hold on just a moment, please?” I begged.
I bolted to the snack cabinet, grabbed all the snack boxes, and splayed them out on the floor, willing to let Violet have free reign of the Goldfish, pretzel, and Pirate’s Booty smorgasbord. It did not appease her. She was out for blood—mine. I was left with no choice but to do what all mothers everywhere are forced to do when they absolutely must take an important phone call. I cupped the lower part of my phone to muffle Violet’s protest and zoomed upstairs to my closet, like I had a mushroom speed boost on Mario Kart.
Adult Conversation Page 5
