My determination to breastfeed should have done something to relieve my sense of wrongness about the birth itself—but every time Alden was weighed (which, between the monthly well-child checks common at this stage and the monthly WIC appointments we had, was often) I was crushed by doubt and guilt.
My sleep is easily disturbed by the alarm as it interrupts my dreams, whether I remember them or not, I know they were there. I wish I could pull the covers back up over my one shoulder that is now chilly and was not a moment ago. But instead, I must rise and do my daily morning duty.
Mixing formula, parenting seemed like science. Turns out, it’s an art.
A year ago I wouldn’t have recognized myself today. Though I think having an infant causes a bit of an identity crisis. Who am I as a writer? Or even as a person? But, at the end of the day, what matters to me after not leaving the house for 36 hours and not showering in twice that, is a need for my community.
There was always enough food to feed a family of seven, and she was able to store a week’s worth of groceries for these hungry boys in a refrigerator that was little more than five feet tall—a relic older than my husband, and not replaced until years after we were married. Every centimeter was crammed with perishables, which only she knew how to find. She made enough food, but it didn’t mean the boys were easily satisfied.
Nearly every cell in my body screams for another baby except for a few and they happen to reside above the shoulders, between my ears. Those few cells scream, too, and at a fever pitch. Have you lost your mind?
My read-aloud problem is my 6-year-old son, Michael. He begins his campaign when he wakes, saying he won’t go to school until I read him a book. If it’s a weekend, he insists on beginning the day with a visit to the bookstore or library so I can read aloud to him.
I drove home from work determined to go about life as usual. From the depths of my soul, I yearned for status quo. I took the exact same route, parked my car in the very same spot, and walked directly to the mailbox, as usual. There were two pieces of mail that day: a free sample of Carefree maxi pads and a gossip magazine featuring pregnant starlets. I sank to the ground, perched on the curb, and melted into hysterics. The universe was conspiring against me, mocking me from afar.
Will I always feel the judgment? Always wrestle with the doubts? Always try to tell myself I did the best I could while wondering if it's true? Will I praise his strengths as innate while blaming myself for his struggles? Does anything in motherhood come without the overwhelming sense that every decision I make has staggering, eternal consequences?
Eight-year-old Selah loves it when I retell stories of ridiculous things she did—or when I retell stories of ridiculous things I did.
