Of course, compounding the challenges we were facing as brand-new parents was the fact that I’d also lost my mom to cancer when I was six months pregnant. She had been an integral part of what I’d imagined when I pictured life as a new mom—that she’d be around, helping me with the baby, showing me how to bathe it, making lasagnas for me and Tim. Instead, she was buried in a cemetery in New Jersey, her breast cancer from ten years ago having returned with no warning or mercy. I missed her so much it made my insides howl. I thought of her constantly; every Clara-related question that popped into my head was a brutal reminder that I couldn’t ask it of the one person I most wanted to. Tim had been a rock since her death, of course, supportive and loving, but I knew that my newfound resentment of him also stemmed from the fact that, through no fault of his own, he was not able to fully understand the depths of my loss and pain, having two healthy and eager parents.
And eager they were—Tim’s mom often offered to drive up from Delaware to help out. But as I’d explained to Tim, the last thing I wanted was to give my mother-in-law a front-row seat to my 24-7 half-nude bodily fluid show. He’d gently asked her to hold off. They’d so far limited themselves to a single visit, when Clara was first born, but kind and well meaning as she was, his mom’s presence only called attention to the absence of the one person I really needed.
On this particular autumn morning, Tim was freshly showered and looking dapper in a crisp white shirt, dark-blue blazer, and khakis, with the perfect intentional clean scruff on his inexplicably tan face. And the stupid socks, of course. Why the hell was he tan? Tim was an architect and met with clients most days, so he always left the apartment looking handsome and polished, which only made me feel worse about how unkempt I was. I sat up in bed, gingerly for still-sleeping Clara’s benefit, and put on my glasses, which was a mistake, because then I could see myself clearly in the mirror above our dresser. I looked like I was wearing a mask, but it really was me: pale face, dark circles under my eyes, knotty nest on top of my head, the sides of my hair darkened with grease. My breasts were rocks under my T-shirt, ready for Clara to drain them at the moment of her waking.
“How was your night last night?” Tim asked in a whisper, trying not to wake Clara, though it was a wonder she’d been spared by his sock acrobatics. God, I was mean.
But come on—how was my night? Great. Just great. After I took her out for sushi, Clara and I went to a club and ended the night with a movie and late-night pancakes on the couch. How was my night? What did that even mean?
“Not the best,” I said instead, trying hard to extinguish the inexplicable rage fire I felt burning within me. Clara’s eyelids were fluttering. “Kind of just dozed holding her for most of the night between feeds. Did you manage to sleep through?”
“Yeah. I guess I really needed it.” I didn’t have the words to respond to that one. “Babe, I really don’t think it’s safe to sleep holding her. What if one of us rolls over onto her? Plus, how will she ever learn to sleep on her own if she gets used to being held all the time?”
“I know, I know,” I said guiltily. Of course he was right, but in the middle of the night, the distance from our bed to her bassinet felt like a marathon. “It’s just that I’m so tired, I can’t help but doze off. And she wakes up half the time when I try to put her down, even if it’s just on the DockATot right next to me. It’s like the only way she’ll stay asleep is if I’m holding her.”
“I know. Can’t blame her, though—she loves being close to you.” When his flattery bounced off me, he continued: “Hey, I’m more than happy to try bottle-feeding her at night again, if you want. You just have to promise not to tell me that I’m doing it wrong.” He was trying to be funny, but he was also right; I was certainly guilty of some maternal gatekeeping, and we had decided after several unsuccessful attempts at Tim taking a night feed that there was no way I was going to sleep through it, and there was no point in both of us being exhausted. Which meant that our solution was that only I was exhausted. “Let me know if you want me to do it tonight. And if sleeping while holding her is better for you, that’s fine. Forget I brought it up, please. Anyway,” he said, changing the subject after surveying the cloud of frustration forming on my face, “what are my two favorite ladies getting up to today?”
I thought about it. It was Friday, which I supposed was good, since that meant we had made it through another week, and my moms’ group was meeting, so I’d have a reason to force myself to leave the house, which, while difficult, always made me feel better. “We’ve got the moms’ group at two. Otherwise, maybe a walk in the park? And I have some laundry to do.” That part went without saying. There was always laundry to do. Whether I would actually find the time, energy, and will to do it was another story. “Not sure what else.”