You know those people who only require six hours of sleep? I’m not one of them. I need a full eight, but I’ll take seven hours if I can get them. If. I knew I was doomed last night when I … Continue reading
I love mornings. Pre-dawn pink through the window. My pajama girl and her big bright smile. Hot coffee. Fresh start.
Here I am again, writing in the evening. I prefer early morning. Fresh start, clear mind, hot cup of coffee. But my family demands my clear mind and efficient hands during those first early hours, and I’m coming to accept that mornings aren’t mine right now. It ends up feeling like a battle, and I need to choose peace. So I’m raising my white flag. I surrender to writing at night with my tired brain.
The upside: twenty days ago, when I began this project, I would get panicky if I hadn’t written during the day. What if I couldn’t come up with something? I’ve learned, just twenty days in, that something always comes. It really is as simple as showing up to the page. Granted, the something that comes might be crappy or only a few sentences long. But it comes.
I love this talk with Anne Lamott. Around twenty minutes in, she confesses her fear around starting her next project. Then immediately counters, “take the action, and your insight follows.” She talks about the necessity of carving out time and how it will be inconvenient for the people you love.
It turns out I couldn’t surrender my morning. I made a few grabs at the computer with my lukewarm coffee. I eked out a few sentences between wiping up blueberry yogurt splatter and sucking snot from my wailing toddler’s nose with the Nosefrida that’s missing half its parts.
I couldn’t completely surrender. Nor could I deny my family’s needs. I guess I’m still figuring it out.
*Updated the following afternoon, February 9, 2016.
It’s one of those mornings. I wake up worried, a whirlpool of panic threatening to suck me in. I’ve been up since 3am with a coughing baby who soaked through her diaper. There’s a lot of crying, coughing, nursing, holding, rocking. I’m afraid it’s croup, but I know it’s not croup; it doesn’t have the bark. Eventually she settles on my chest like a newborn, though she is far (and not so far) from newborn. Her legs stretch down the length of my thigh and her toes rest at my knees now. Her head is tucked under my chin and I’m breathing her wispy hair. We doze for a bit and then she’s up at 5:30am.
Coffee. Dishes. The panic makes me edgy and grumpy. I try to push it down, not let it creep up into my voice. Switch out laundry. Scoop cat litter (my favorite). I go through the morning routine. I keep moving. My fear is mostly around not knowing what’s next. I text my sister who texts me back with assurances and a virtual slap for focusing on my regrets instead of my accomplishments.
A text from a friend jolted me out of my anxiety and back into the present. Then I happened upon Jennifer Berney’s beautiful essay On Infertility and Magical Thinking, which talks about the struggle to get pregnant, all the magical thinking that takes hold, and the truth of how you feel when you reach the other side.
The me of nine years ago reaches forward in time. She takes the snapshot from my hand and reminds me of how badly I wanted the life I have now. She reminds me to listen in the dark as my children breathe. She reminds me of how tenuous all of this is, our lives together on this earth. We are the products of a series of infinite chances, bound to each other by the near-impossibility of it all.
My second blog post was about being a magical thinker, but I also believe in that last sentence of Berney’s: We are the products of a series of infinite chances, bound to each other by the near-impossibility of it all. It is only by chance you reach the other side of that solitary struggle with a baby in your arms. Though were you to ask my mother, she would tell you that she prayed my daughter into existence, and I believe that too.
There have been few times in my life I’ve known exactly what I wanted. But I knew with absolute certainty that I wanted a baby. A single-minded, desperate yearning. I wished on eyelashes and birthday candles and dandelions. I saw acupuncturists and herbalists and endocrinologists. I meditated on lunch breaks in my car. I went to a shrine in New Jersey to pray at the feet of a statue. We nailed a wishbone above the bedroom door. For months we looked at ultrasounds of my ovaries, squinted at vague underwater black and whites. The tests drained all the insurance money and told us nothing. Unexplained infertility. Like the universe shrugging its shoulders at us.
For two and a half years we tried. Eventually I took the last of the insurance money to a different doctor. They began by repeating the same blood work, which had all been fine just a few months before. Chris was playing hockey at night back then. There was a Russian team who liked to get rough, and Chris took a puck to the mouth and face-planted the ice. He didn’t even call me until after he’d been to the ER to get stitched up. His eye was purple and swollen shut. He had a giant lump on his forehead and four stitches in his lip. That week my blood work came back, and according to the numbers, my ovarian reserve was gone. Poof, just like that, no more eggs. Even if we could afford IVF (which we couldn’t), it probably wouldn’t be successful. (There is a metaphor in here, both of us beat up, done in.) Then came Mother’s Day. My period was late, as it often was. I didn’t dare take a test – the irony would be too ridiculous. I was dreaming again, those whispers of hope floating like ash. So I waited two days. Two days after Mother’s Day, a positive pregnancy test. Poof, just like that, I was having a baby.
This story is lost from my day-to-day. A baby will make swift work of wiping out your former life. You are rooted in the ever-changing present and jolted forward by the rapid motion of their growth – and yours. Time stands still during sleepless nights and evaporates everywhere else. You try and catch it – it can’t possibly be moving this fast. Sometimes you are so tired, so touched-out. Impatient, delirious, frustrated, worried. Other times, joyful to the marrow of your bones, happiness coursing through blood vessels, rapture thrumming in your organs. It undulates. It ripples. It surges and swells. And you swim, a novice and a natural born swimmer both at once.
Worry clouds memory, makes me forget precisely how lucky I am. My angel girl, my heavenly creature. Here we are together! Gratitude suspends worry. We go to the playground and run through snow and slide down slides together. I push her as long as she wants on the swing. I sit in the passenger seat of the car and nurse her into pure contentment before we go. I hold her while she naps, staring at those long eyelashes and rosebud lips, perfect face. I have the life I dreamed of. My wish come true. My prayer answered. I shouldn’t worry so much.
*This post was edited on January 28, 2016.