CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - I AM THAT MOM

There is no reclaiming self for me without reclaiming motherhood.

“Okay! Here are lunches, diaper bag… shoes are on, and off you go!”

Paris had come to pick the girls up and take them to school. He likes to do this whenever he can. Sneak in some extra time when he didn’t get a chance to see them the night before. I think it’s lovely, and honestly, it’s a big help. With the half hour difference between drop off times, the whole excursion takes a big bite out of my day. Not only that, but Paris’s early arrivals give me a chance to show off just how goddamn good I’ve gotten at the pre-school, morning routine.

“Love you, mama!” Big shouted, as she wrapped her arms around me for a hug. I squeezed her funny, toothless, little head against my stomach, and responded to Little’s smoochy faces with a big, fat kiss. I watched the three of them walk down the steps to the car and marveled. Only six weeks in, and look at us. This was going to work. Hell, it was already working. Easy fucking peasy.

I closed the front door, went into the bathroom, and glanced at my phone before throwing some makeup on. There in big, bold caps, was an e-mail reminder I had sent to myself last night after receiving a message from Big’s school: [BIG] MUST HAVE HAT!

Shit! That’s right! They’re going to be gardening at school today!

I ran to the front door and threw it open. Thankfully, Paris was still strapping Little into her car seat.

“Wait! Hang on!” I called out, and ran back inside. I busted through the baby gate, dashed into the girls’ bedroom, snagged my favorite bowler hat of Big’s, and ran out the front door.

“She needs a hat!” I said as I jogged down the steps toward Paris’s truck, my now oversized dress falling off my shoulders.

“Oh… okay.” Paris said, looking at me like I was nuts. I had a huge grin on my face, and half my bra hanging out. But by God, I had remembered the fucking hat.

I jogged back up the steps, shut the door behind me, and let out an audible, “YES!” It had taken a bit, but I was fucking rocking this mom thing.

My first pregnancy was emotional, but not for the reasons I expected. Sure, I was moody, I would cry at the drop of a hat, and I ate my feelings. That didn’t bother me. What did, was that I had a lot of trouble generating love for this tiny creature growing inside of me.

I started to think there was something wrong with me. I would stare at my swollen belly, talk to her every day, and playing music for her, but I knew I didn’t love her. And each time I tried to make myself, I would fall short, growing more and more concerned about what the hell kind of mother I was going to be. There was, however, one thing I neglected to take into account. I hadn’t met her yet.

Because of the c-section, I didn’t get to hold Big for the first time until I was in the recovery room. But when they brought her in, wrapped in a white striped blanket with a little pink cap, my arms shot out all on their own. All the fears I had about how I was going to handle my newborn vanished, and for once in my goddamn life, I knew exactly what to do. I snuggled her to me, she latched right away, and we spent the next few hours gazing into one another’s eyes. All the anxiety I felt during my pregnancy vanished into thin air. It was love at first sight. The most intense, transcendent, mind-blowing love I’ve ever felt in my life. They say your entire world changes when you have a child, and that’s true, but again, not for the reasons I expected. Everything was different now, not because of the new responsibilities I had, but because I knew without a shadow of a doubt, that if anything ever happened to this tiny, perfect creature, I would never be the same.

I stayed up that entire night just staring at her as she slept on my chest. I couldn’t believe how perfect she was. I mean, just beyond. At one point, she lifted her head, and with her eyes still closed, rested her chin on her tiny arms, folded across my chest.

“Hello!” I said. And I shit you not, without opening her eyes, she smiled. A big, fat grin, from ear to ear.

Little’s birth had been a very different experience. A much calmer delivery, and, this was my second time around. I knew what to expect. I also knew that I wouldn’t fully fall in love with my tiny offspring until she arrived in the world. What did surprise me, however, was just how empowering the experience of having Little would be.

During my second pregnancy, I was in between writing jobs, and so had to take a retail position at a boutique in Malibu. It was a quiet spot where I could get writing done in between customers, but the owner wasn’t a fan of me. In spite of the fact that my due date proved my case, she thought I was pregnant when I applied, and lied to her so I could get state disability when it was time for me to take maternity leave. Not only did I have to suck it up to take the low-paying job in the first place, but now I was being treated like a piece of trash who was trying to work the system to her benefit. It was beyond demoralizing.

But thankfully, I had a strange, alien source of strength I’d never had before. A fire, and an incredible determination to not be stepped on ever again. And I knew, even then, that brazen courage was all because of Little.

The day my boss finally, flat-out accused me of hiding my pregnancy, I quit. She had been on my case for so long, nit picking, watching me on the security cameras, giving me shit for leaning on the counter when my back hurt. I mean, every little thing she could find, and now I knew why. I told her as a fellow working mother she should be ashamed of herself, grabbed my bag, and walked the fuck out.

She tried to get me to come back for days after that. I sent her the fucking key and told her to kick rocks.

You should know, dear Nurse, that I’ve never quit a job on the spot before. Ever. I have always been too afraid, too concerned about money and stability. And in this situation, I had every reason to be. No other source of income, a baby on the way... But I knew I needed to do it, and Little gave me all the strength and ammunition I needed.

The first time I felt her, held her in my arms, covered in sticky, white vernix caseosa, the first thing I noticed was her physical strength. Only seven pounds, with a mushy little face from chilling in the birth canal for an hour or so, but she was solid. I knew two things in that moment. This little spitfire was going to give me a run for my money, and she was the strongest woman I'd ever met.

My daughters are incredible people. Big is pure love, empathy, and compassion. Little is fire, Dionysian indulgence, and passion. They came with these things. Before having children, I was always more on the nurture side of the debate. But once I met these two fantastic women, I found myself converted. It’s nature, baby. We are who we are the moment we’re born. My job is to encourage them, love them, protect them, and get the fuck out of their way. Because my girls to do not belong to me. They are my traveling companions, and as such, they deserve respect.

Lately, given my personal situation and this project, however, I worried I hadn’t been giving them what they needed.

“Is there anything else you want to know?” Friar Laura asked me at the end of my reading the other day.

“Yeah…” I sighed. The reading hadn’t brought about the best news thus far, particularly when it came to Romeo and our future together, so I knew I was taking a chance by getting into such a serious subject. I did, however, want to know. “I’ve been worried about my kids. If I’m giving them enough right now.”

I had been so focused on myself, my rediscovery, the divorce, and this project. Even when the girls were around and running rampant, I only had half of my brain in the room. I knew it, but as much as I tried, I felt powerless. For the first time since Big’s birth, I was actively putting my children second, and it was making me feel like garbage.

“They’re suspended.” Friar Laura said a bit cryptically. “They’re feeling frozen in place right now because they don’t know what’s next or what to expect. But they’re okay. Your guides are telling me they’re going to be glad you’re doing this work now rather than later.”

Though I agreed with Friar Laura’s assessment, and felt somewhat bolstered, I knew I couldn’t rely on it. This project is about rediscovering myself. Finding my best parts, and for me, that includes a way to be the most kickass mother I can be. I might not accomplish it during the course of this project, but I damn well need to find a path forward.

So, as I mentioned, I went home and rearranged my bedroom. But, rather than attempting to keep Little locked in the room with Big behind the baby gate as I normally would during such a transition, I let her run free. Padding around with her little naked butt out, in case she had to run to the potty. Well, not only did she need to run to the potty, she insisted on my attendance.

“Come on, [Little], really?” I said, sweaty and tired from moving furniture. How many dumps had this kid taken? Now she needed me to watch?

“Mama, come!” She insisted, and grabbed my hand.

Lately in this situation, I might have refused. That, or I would have grabbed the potty, brought it into the bedroom with us, and had her poop in there while I continued rearranging the room. But in that moment, I asked myself, why?

I am a deeply impatient person. I work work work and I rush rush rush and I want answers answers answers, now now now. I don’t love this about myself, but it’s a big part of who I am. What I have loved most about having children, though, is that they demand your attention. It’s not a fucking option. Sometimes you just have to stop whatever you’re doing, no matter how important you think it is, and help them. And right now, for whatever reason, Little needed help taking a poop.

“Alright.” I said with a sigh, and smiled. “Let’s go.”

She sat on her training potty in their shared bedroom, and let out the loudest fart I think I’ve ever heard.

“What was that!?” Big called from the other room, and that’s when Little and I busted up.

“What?” Big asked again, coming into the bedroom to find Little and I laughing so hard there were tears streaming down our faces. Not just because of the cacophonous fart, but because Little was now laugh-pooping. Her face bright red with strain, every belly laugh forcing another wet exclamation from her behind.

And now Big was laughing, and Little was laughing, and I was on the fucking floor. I swear, I’ve never been so glad I agreed to watch someone else poop.

Last night, however, was particularly magical.

I was exhausted from the day, and decided the dishes could wait. So, I scooped up what I could of the food Little had thrown on the floor, frisbee’d their plastic plates into the sink, and sat on the floor of their bedroom. I didn’t do much. I just watched them, played with whatever toys they brought me, and mediated minor disagreements. But it was strangely nice. Just taking time out. Not rushing, not cleaning, not writing. Just being.

“Aw. You guys look so relaxed over there.” My dad said, chatting with us over Zoom from Gloucester, where he was staying with his girlfriend.

“Really?” I laughed, but he was right. For the first time in the past six weeks, the girls and I were just chillin’. No agenda, nowhere to be, and really, not much of a care in the world. And I realized, that’s all it took. Just the tiny, little intention of shifting my focus from work or domestic duties to them, even if it was just for forty minutes or so, and they worked their kid magic on me. I was there. I was present. Because kids demand that of you. That’s why they’re awesome.

“Can I read to you guys tonight?” Big asked after we hung up with Lord Capulet, and I had gotten Little into her crib for the night.

“Of course!” I replied, a bit stunned.

On a recommendation from Big’s first grade teacher, Paris and I had spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to get her to read aloud to Little. She was so self conscious about it, though. We weren’t allowed to be in the room, and when we’d listen in the doorway, she was barely audible. Just mumbling what sounded like words, but honestly could have been Russian for all we knew. And needless to say, between the obstinance and the mumbling, Little wasn’t enamored with the assignment either, and often rattled the bars of her baby gate, begging for release. Now, apparently, all on her own, Big had changed her tune.

“Can I read this one?” She asked, grabbing one of my all-time favorites, Rosie Revere, Engineer. She sat on the bean bag chair, assuming my usual reading spot, and read the entire book start to finish.

If only you could have seen me, dear Nurse. I was fucking glowing. There were times in my life when her stumbles and pauses would have made me watch the clock with when-is-this-going-to-end, late-night anxiety, but not this night. And I sincerely hope, not any night, not anymore. She was on fire. Even through Little’s babbling, and insistence on chucking her pacifier at me the entire time, Big could not be bothered. She read the fuck out of that Rosie Revere, Engineer, and I was there for it. All of it.

So, dear Nurse, am I a perfect mother? No. Not yet. But am I finding my way back to my babies in a new, healthier way? Yeah. I think I am. And though I may never be perfect, I think I can be great. And at the end of the day, I’m pretty sure great is all they need.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet