Couldn’t I just lock my bedroom door from the inside, smash my phone, and sleep in instead?
No, don’t worry, I get it. If I “complain or don’t well up with crocodile tears over the meager/contractually bound efforts of my family, then I am a selfish monster who should be grateful to have ever experienced the sublime and life-affirming joys of motherhood that are myriad, ceaseless, and without parallel in the human experience.” And if I “dare to gripe even the tiniest bit it must always, always be immediately neutralized with some kind of pat statement like ‘But it’s all so worth it,’ said through an unnaturally tight smile and with the dissociative stare of a hostage.” Oh, those aren’t my words, that’s actually page three of the papers I had to sign before they’d release me from the maternity ward.
I’m trying to think what could really put this whole thing right over the top though. Maybe something about a culture that superficially worships at the altar of motherhood while simultaneously not offering any genuine support or respect, just a whole lot of soft-focus commercials, bad jeans, and sexless minivans? Man, that’s good. Or maybe that same culture could also simultaneously shame mothers who pay “too much” attention to their kids while also screeching “WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?!” every time a child so much as gets a wayward mayfly right to the eyeball while enjoying more than five seconds of unsupervised outdoor freedom? Or here’s another one—maybe businesses could just decide for themselves what sort of maternity leave they feel like offering, because if capitalism has taught us anything, it’s that self-serving empathy should always be used as a recruiting tool. A recruiting tool for people who are already pretty rich to begin with. I’d like that last one worked onto a Hallmark card bordered with roses and white doves, please.
Anyway, I want to thank you all for thanking me on this day of required thanking. Now everyone go outside and play so I can throw up this smoothie and clean the kitchen in peace.
“If Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy”: Revised and Expanded
If Mama ain’t drinking coffee and it’s before 8:00 a.m., ain’t nobody need to be talking to her/me.
If Mama ain’t getting paid family leave, ain’t nobody need to be wondering where she lives because it obviously ain’t Sweden.
If Mama ain’t called something other than Mama by total strangers, ain’t nobody gonna be getting a smile back. Not happening.
If Mama ain’t getting mad or sad about something, ain’t nobody gotta wonder if she’s stuffing it all down because, oh boy, is she.
If Mama ain’t making some mistakes, ain’t nobody think that’s actually true, do they?
If Mama ain’t getting some sort of support after this baby is born, ain’t nobody gonna be getting a sibling.
If Mama ain’t making the same amount of money for the same job as a man, ain’t nobody gonna be hearing the end of it, that’s for damn sure.
If Mama ain’t given some sort of heads-up to throw on a nice dress and some lipstick the night that she’s thrown a surprise birthday party, ain’t nobody gonna be liking any of the surprises that come next.
If Mama ain’t starting a mommy blog, ain’t nobody else need to be starting a mommy blog. All full up, ladies!
If Mama ain’t fitting into her pants, ain’t nobody need to be stating the obvious at least to her face, seriously—use your head on this one, guys.
If Mama ain’t got a job outside the home, ain’t nobody gotta say something just plain D-U-M-B like, “I’m so happy I returned to work where I CAN USE MY BRAIN AGAIN.”
If Mama ain’t a stay-at-home mama, ain’t nobody gotta say something just plain mean like, “Why did you have kids if you’re not gonna raise them?”
If Mama ain’t asking you for some parenting advice, ain’t no reason to shoot your fool mouth off, INTERNET.
If Mama ain’t enjoying every minute, ain’t nobody need to ask her why unless they really want to hear the answer(s).
If Mama ain’t loading the dishwasher, ain’t nobody gotta leave their dishes on the table as if the only passable bridge between these two mysterious places are middle-aged lady hands.
If Mama ain’t told you 121 times to pick up your socks, ain’t nobody gotta wonder why because chances are she’s probably dead.
If Mama ain’t yelling and instead is very, very singsongy, ain’t nobody getting out of this one alive.
If Mama ain’t breastfeeding, ain’t nobody’s damn business why or why not—zip it.
If Mama ain’t having it all, ain’t nobody having it all. Seriously, it’s not even an actual thing.
If Mama ain’t out of ice cream, ain’t nobody need to wonder if there’s late bedtime tonight; there is not, go to bed now, I have ice cream to eat.
If Mama ain’t running for political office, ain’t nobody need to worry because she’ll still go ahead and fix the world all by herself just like she does every other thing.
If Mama ain’t feeling completely fulfilled, heard, relaxed, and respected, ain’t nobody . . . HA HA HA, sorry, couldn’t even get through that one with a straight face.
Vows
Tiny Losses
It was a group lunch, a lunch that included my friends and work partners, ex-coworkers and my husband. We would all meet up after my appointment, although no one besides Jon and I would know I had an appointment that day. Not at first anyway.
I anticipated that morning with torturous glee, the kind of glee that comes from secrecy and surprises. I had been told there was no need to come in before the twelfth week, so I waited and ingested vitamins and daydreamed. This is only the beginning, I told myself, no need to rush. I marked off the days on the calendar as we inched toward our first milestone as a family. A family! What a phrase! I thought, This is probably the only time I’ll ever be excited to go to a hospital.
I had taken a pregnancy test and another one. Positive and positive. I had taken one in the doctor’s office, positive again. I mean, how pregnant can you get? I felt the effects, the hangover-like effects that even a good nap and an entire box of mac and cheese can’t kill. I had felt sleepy and sore and full of questions. Only Jon and I knew I was pregnant. Otherwise I didn’t tell another soul. Not a best friend, not my business partners, not even a stranger, which would’ve been the safest option. I knew the miscarriage statistics by heart, that one in four or one in five pregnancies are lost before the magic twelve-week mark. I rationalized that if something terrible did happen, no one would be the wiser. I was pregnant, then I wasn’t; I would go about my life as if I had just had a bad cold. But let’s face it, that wasn’t going to happen. Even with my naturally pessimistic nature, some part of me believed I’d be firmly on the other side of those statistics. The three out of four, the four out of five. Just before I reached that three-month mark I felt better—measurably, incredibly, joyfully better. Just like the books and websites and articles said I might.
I marveled at how well it was all working out. I felt completely relieved of the soreness and the nausea. I’d be able to eat a meal with my friends without lurching from the variety of smells and meats and sauces. I wouldn’t have to keep secrets anymore either, which was exhausting in its own way. It would all be out there, finally.
I hate surprises, but I like surprising people. And a pregnancy is always the best kind of surprise when you’re married and in your thirties, and although you weren’t ready and you weren’t trying, you also weren’t not trying, these things happen, and holy shit! I thought about how after all that waiting and keeping my mouth shut and acting like I wasn’t about to fall asleep or throw up in my purse, I’d finally spring this big announcement at lunch and what would it all mean? I guess we’d hug or squeal and I’d talk about my due date and maybe I’d even share the name I had in mind. Sawyer, whether it was a boy or a girl. Although, I admitted only to myself, it’d be especially fantastic for a girl. Sawyer Hughes. That is a girl who is going places; that is a girl who will bruise hearts and helm companies; that is a girl who will break big stories, own big dog
s, and have her own place in the city and maybe another one in the country. Nothing fancy, a cottage of some sort. And that is a girl who will have me in her corner, always.
Or maybe, just maybe, that will be a girl who will never exist.
The gel was applied to my belly and the wand worked its way around. It searched. And searched and searched and searched. Because this was my first ultrasound ever, I was just the kind of happy idiot who didn’t know anything might be wrong. Besides, today was the day of sharing great news and us all eating lunch together. Nothing bad happens on a group lunch day, does it?
I waited anxiously for the doctor to come in. Let’s get a real expert in here who knows what she’s doing. Who knows, maybe heartbeats are hard to find. We waited for the right answer.
“I’m so sorry” is what we got instead.
What we finally saw, as she held the wand still, was a small gray jelly bean resting on its side at the bottom of my uterus, like a stone in an empty bucket. Nothing to see here.
We both started to cry.
I was informed of my options; I could wait it out and miscarry naturally, or I could get a D and C. Fuck waiting it out; I want this out of me. What a thing it is, to go about your life carefully for weeks and months, everything in protection of this little life, imagining this little thumbnail of a thing as a boy, as a girl, with wavy hair, with blue eyes, with limbs and thoughts, growing up, getting married. The brain is a fantasy machine and it will spin out entire biographies for a clump of cells you hadn’t even confirmed were actually alive. What a thing, to go suddenly from that imagined endless future to straight down into a dark visceral place where you just want your dead baby gone. Out of you. If you’re not alive, well, let’s just get on with it then.
We were sent to another waiting room, another nurse, to make an appointment. I walked in a fog, my puffy sad face not at all out of place in the infertility clinic. Jesus, was I infertile now? I feel like ob-gyns don’t really understand how triggering their practices are; their waiting rooms, their signage, their mix of patients who are at opposite ends of major life experiences. It’d be like having an oncologist who only specializes in people definitely dying of cancer and people who will never get cancer, guaranteed. But please, wait in this room together so you may see your lives in stark relief.
We sat down. This was not happening.
I sent an e-mail to everyone about lunch: I wasn’t feeling well and I was so sorry, but even though I organized this whole thing I wouldn’t be able to make it. I used an appropriate number of exclamation points. They didn’t know what they didn’t know. I was just sick, just like I had planned. I just can’t make it; I’m so sorry. Throwing up, you know. No one needs that at their lunch, right?! Question mark, exclamation point.
The morning of my D and C we made our sad, slow way to the hospital. This was not what I had planned for that Friday. Earlier that week, Friday was simply one more step forward in our future together, one in a series of neat, predictable steps you took once you were married. From wedding to honeymoon to buffer period to babies. And now we were moving backward. We were going to need to wait to be ready to start all over again. Waiting to be ready to start. This was stupid.
I had never had any kind of procedure before. I never broke an arm or a leg or had the most minor of surgeries. Unless you count having wisdom teeth taken out, which I do not. This was my first hospital bed, my first IV, and don’t those hurt like a motherfucker? My first signing of documents legally warning me that I could die due to complications from general anesthesia (“Sounds great right about now, give me the pen”), and my first maneuvering of a complicated bed. What a beautiful room it was, with windows that looked out at the appropriately gray city of Portland, Oregon. What a beautiful place it would be to have a baby, I thought. Instead, it felt quiet and awful.
My doctor came in to check on me before the procedure. I had tried hard to keep it together but then she sat on the edge of my bed. Up until that moment she had always been professional and reserved. At every exam she had taken on the role of annual fertility alarm, asking me if we were considering starting a family. She could sense how cavalier I was being, so she always left me with a gentle, “Just don’t put it off too long. It will only get more difficult.” But in this moment we were on the same side. Sure, I hadn’t tried to get pregnant, but that’s exactly what I had done. And then I was not. She quietly but directly began, “I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy. I really do understand how you’re feeling right now. But I want you to know, I went on to have two healthy kids. You will get pregnant again.” She paused. “This just wasn’t the right time.”
The thing was, it really wasn’t the right time, we had told each other it wasn’t the right time. We were broke and only getting more broke by the day. The design studio I was a partner in was tanking, everything was tanking, from the fallout of September 11. We were in massive debt. When I came across a vintage toy Winnebago camper at a yard sale for twenty bucks I bought it as a symbol, of this time in our lives when we were clearly going to end up living IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER. It was a symbol we had nothing, that we actually had less than nothing, that we owed everyone. And it was a symbol of my own idiocy, that even when we were poorer than dirt I’d still spend my last twenty bucks on a toy camper.
My confidence that my partners and I would sashay into the design world and start making money hand over fist led to ridiculous anticipatory spending and no safety nets. And now I was pregnant. Or I had been pregnant. But we would’ve made it work had the baby stayed. Had we stayed. Everyone always makes it work, don’t they?
I couldn’t summon my voice, tears slipped across my cheeks, and I nodded my head to indicate I had heard her, that I hoped, that I wanted to believe what she was saying was true. Jon squeezed my hand. I cried harder. And then I was out. And then it was done. And we were back to not being a family again.
That weekend was an unseasonably beautiful one. It was early May in Oregon, a place where we could usually count on the gray skies and rain enveloping us well past the Fourth of July. I parked myself in the sun in our backyard, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. After being gentle with my body for so long, I now set out to poison it. Fuck you, body.
I wanted to get numb and stay there. It’s incredible to realize now there were no iPhones, no social media, no Facebook. Otherwise I would’ve been numbing myself with those too. Instead, I let the sun beat down on me and allowed a slow imprecise level of drunkenness to take over. I miss how we used to all have to feel our feelings while we were feeling them, alcohol aside. Now I can’t get through writing a slightly challenging sentence without a thirty-five-minute distraction-laced journey through at least three social media platforms. Sometimes five.
I tried to read, but everything I picked up would either not hold my interest—and the last thing I needed was my mind to wander—or incite rage. There are mothers everywhere, and pregnancy and relationships and siblings. There are babies. Alive ones.
I can still feel the heat of that sun on my face; I can see our patchy backyard, the one our dogs had thoroughly destroyed through their Kentucky Derby–like treatment of it. When we had first moved in, there were banks of lavender and mint all around our low-slung deck. After a few months, a clutch of hardy sprigs clung on for their lives. The rest turned to hard-packed dirt. The dogs were soaking in the sun too, occasionally rising to sniff at me, then collapse back into their comas. I turned this way and that, having fully surrendered. I didn’t know what to do with myself, given that what had been filling me emotionally and physically was now gone. I begged the sun to bake the sadness out of me.
After just a day, and much to my disappointment, I realized I needed to tell people my news. Our news. Trying to process my grief with someone who was also grieving turned out to not be a solid plan. Plus I think there’s nothing quite like drunk dialing your friends in the middle of the day with sad news. I called one of my oldest and dearest friends and told her what had happened
, the good news that ended up being the bad news. She was healthy and sane and suggested I take care of myself, maybe go for a walk. Or consider yoga once I was up to it and I was like, “Yeah, I think I’ll just drink and smoke. Thanks though.”
I didn’t tell many people, I started small and close. As it should be. I told only women at first, because, of course. None of them were mothers, not yet. But I felt like they would know as much as I knew at that point. They would understand the disappointment, although none of us understood what it meant to be a parent. They would be appropriately sad for me, and I needed some extra hands on the “being sad for me” front. Mine were all filled up.
I napped and drifted. I went to bed early and late. It’s strange to have your calendar suddenly wiped clean. That Sunday I woke in the dark, starving. I needed coffee; I needed brain alterations that were decidedly more morning-friendly. I left the house in search of doughnuts at 5:30 a.m. I had lived on the West Coast long enough to know there would be no Dunkin’ Donuts every five blocks and, even if there were, no one would care. Poor Dunkin’ Donuts. I drove around trying to find any place that was open, finally landing at a supermarket ten miles away. I beelined it for the bakery and filled a waxed paper bag with chocolate-covered doughnuts with sprinkles. The same doughnuts I would always get when I was a kid, after I washed my dad’s car on Saturday mornings and we’d head to the doughnut shop as a reward. I wondered what kind of doughnuts my kids would want. I wondered if I could even have kids. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe that was my one shot.
Amateur Hour Page 5
