Postpartum

Postpartum
         Mental note; The first words out of my mouth today were a lie.  James was within earshot, so I said “Good morning my little love.” I’m going to hell.
My body is a disaster zone.  James couldn’t be happier, but somehow I can’t relate.  I’m still sore after a week and I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time.  I cry at night after James falls asleep.  Every night.  All night.  I don’t want him to know. I’m a goddamned kindergarden teacher! I’m great with kids, I should be able to handle this.  Anyone can watch someone else’s child I guess. Having one of your own is something different.  These slithering snakes of thoughts creep through my head, and all I want to do is run away.  I can’t bring myself to voice any of this, but when I hold my daughter I feel nothing.  I should have known I was too selfish to be a mother.
I flashback to when I was in college , and still living in the dorms.  Every now and then I’d just have to get away from it all.  I’d pack a few things, walk about a half mile to a cheap motel right near campus and spend the night.  Even if everything was going well I’d just have to get away.  I’d lie to my friends, and my roommate.  I liked having the secret.  I liked having no one else in the world to consider.  What have I gotten myself into?  What have I brought this child into?
         James is watching Isabella.  He said I should relax, and take a bath or something.  As hard as I’m trying to hide it I think he knows.  I do the feeding, and the diaper changes.  I burp her, wash her, read her books, and sing her to sleep, but I am joyless, and I think he knows.  I watch him hold her and he gets this look in his eyes like everything is perfect now.  He says things like “Can you believe we made something so incredible?”, or “She has your eyes.” He is in love with her.  In love with her tiny toes and fingers.  In love with her airy breath as she sleeps.  In love with her baby belly, and the little rolls of fat on her arms and legs.  I can see all of these endearing traits, but that‘s all.  I can recognize her as mine, but I still don’t feel a thing.  Good news is I only have 18 years of pretending left.  I’m sure the time will fly. 
         “Thanks for taking her for the day Mom.”
         “Oh sure. I can’t wait to rile her up, and then hand her off to your father!” My mother emmitted that same carefree laugh she always had.  My mom was perpetually laid back.  She raised four kids, worked three jobs at a time for a while, and all with a husband who worked 13 hour days to keep his law practice afloat.  Through it all she went to the PTA meeting, threw holiday parties, birthday parties, first snow parties, and did every arts and carafts project in Highlights magazine.  She did all this and made it seem as effortless as breathing.  She later dealt with missed cerfews, raging teenage hormones, marijuana smoke, and rotten grades with eaqual ease.
         She’s going to show her off to all of her aging gym buddies, then hand her off to my father who has never been so proud of me.  Isabella is the best thing I’ve done with my life.  I’m sure that’s what he thinks.  I feel relief as my mom loads Isabella into the car-seat and drove away. Guilt washes over me.  How am I going to do this?  Everything reminds me of what a sorry excuse for a mother I am.
         She never stops crying.  All day, all night!  She’s not hungry, tired, gassy, or in need of a diaper change.  I think she knows that I don’t love her.  What am I going to do?
          A day to myeslf... I have no idea what to do. I sit down for the first time since I got back from the hospital to watch t.v. The first thing I see is a Suave commercial! Menatl note; God damn that shampoo and anyone who uses it! Their catch phrase is “Is motherhood messing with your hair? Suave can fix that”.  Oh well problem solved huh?! They show a gorgeous woman with her belly slowly getting bigger, then a kid, then a bunch of little munchkins climbing all over her.  The entire time that bitch has the audacity to smile.  She has this look on her face like she was at peace.  Like her biggest problem with being a mother was the fact that her hair looked like crap. I hate everything.          This delightful little tidbit is followed by a Walmart commercial.  It says that smart moms shop at Walmart!  Is this what I’ve been reduced to?  Mental note; I am out of my mind.  Maybe it’s hormonal.  Perhaps I should go to the doctor.
         I spend the rest of the day wandering around the house cleaning up.  I go grocery shoping, buy food, formula, and about a billion diapers. I make a few dinners for the week and pop them in the freezer.  I lay in bed for the rest of the day unitl Jake gets home with Isabella.  He picked her up on the way home from work.
         She won’t stop crying.  It’s a sleepless night.  It’s like a video montage before my eyes.  Blinking baby monitor, darkened hallway, shitty diaper, hallway, formula mix, puke rag, hallway, shitty diaper. 
         I put her down at 5 am, and she wakes up at 7:30... not bad. I’ve taken to walking her up and down the street to try and calm her down.  Nothing works.  She just screams her little head off.  I can’t bring her any comfort.  I know that it’s all my fault.    She deserves better than this.  Better than me.
         My neighbor Jennyy has been watching me since I first started pacing up and down the block.  Watching me act like I’m deaf while Isabella shrieks and squirms around in my arms. Today she comes up to me as I pass her house.
         “Hey there Lily!” she’s a sweet older woman.  I stop and let her get across her lawn.
         “Hi Jenny.  How are you?” We make small talk for a while.  James and I would take walks when we first moved to the neighborhood.  We’d chat with her pretty often.  After a few mintues of fawning over Isabella she asks if she can video tape me.  She said she’s teaching a sex education class and wants to show those horny little teens what they might have to deal with if they get knocked up. 
         “After all” she says “your all grown up, settled down, and it’s still difficult.  Some babies are just criers for the first few months.”  I laughed and say something about the joys of motherhood, and agree to let her.  Mental note; Dear lord, I’m a birth control ad.
         I go inside fighting back tears, pick up the phone and make appointment with Dr. Glover.  I hang up, but before I even remove my hand from the phone I call back and cancel it.  I guess I was going to ask him to check my hormones and see if there’s something wrong with me, but the thought of explaining what has been happening makes my skin crawl.  Plus what if he does some test and it turns out my hormones are fine, it’s my heart that’s fucked up.  Mental note; There is no medicine for being frigid.  I’m sure of that.
         Hallway, shitty diaper, hallway, formula mix, puke rag, hallway, shitty diaper, empty the trash, load the dishwasher, formula mix...

         I see and hear the baby monitor, but I don’t move. I’m done pretending. .  After a few minutes James woke up.  “She’s crying” he said fully expecting me to hop up.  I say nothing.  He rolls over and looks at me. “Babe she’s crying.” I tell him to deal with it.  He looks bewildered. He says something about how he takes care of her from the time he gets home from work until when he goes to sleep.  He says something about being the one with the job; he’s doesn’t get maternity leave after all.  I say nothing, roll away from him, and fall back asleep. I guess he fed her, and put her back down because she didn’t cry for another two hours.  He is getting dressed at that point.  He looks over at me.           “Are you going to take care of your child, or what?” an accusation not a question
         He is annoyed, and then I finally say it.  I tell him that she shouldn’t be my child.  That we had made a mistake. I face away from him, and fall back asleep. I guess he called in sick to work because he’s still here taking care of Isabella, and not speaking to me.
         I leave the bed once to go to the bathroom.  The rest of the day I watch the shadows go from bruises on my wall  to blackberry stains in the corner. I feel my dough soft belly.  God I miss my swolen, rock hard pregnant hard womb.  I miss being estatic about motherhood.  Imagining myself serenely rocking a baby to sleep, taking in that magnificent new born scent with my never-before-so-proud nostrils while she slept.  I felt so connected to her then.
         What’s wrong with me? I flash back to tiny hands on my giant belly.  My kids, the kids I teach, were thrilled by the baby kicking.  So was I... I drift off to sleep again.
         James calls his mother to come stay with us for a while.  I tell him I don’t want her to come.  He says someone has to look after Izzy. Mental note; I detest the nick name Izzy.
          I do not want another witness to how inept and heartless I am.  Maybe I should just leave.  I imagine myself getting up, packing a few things and leaving this nightmare behind.  Going to some cheap motel again like I did in college. Instead I roll over and fall back asleep thinking of the sweet escape of an atrocious bedspread, and plastic covered lamp shades.
         I sleep for what seems like forever.  When I wake up Mother Martha is here.  She and James are talking in the living room.  I don’t need to evesdrop to know what they are saying.  I drift back off.
         It’s been two days since Mother Martha came to stay, and I finally get out of bed.  I’m going to do it.  I’m going to leave.  I get up and take a hot shower.  I dress and even put on make-up.  I pack a bag and leave it in the closet.
         “I’m taking her to the park.” Is my only greeting to my mother in law.  I load Isabella,  and the baby bag into her stroller, and set out for the park.  I feel the need to explain myself to her.  Even if I’m not capable of loving her, I feel sorry for the poor thing.
         “It’s not you baby.  You deserve better than someone who will be miserable for the rest of her life with you...
         I bring the stroller to a stop under a tree, and sit on a bench facing her. 
         “Your dad is going to take great care of you.  Better than I ever could... I don’t know what’s wrong with me baby.  I guess... I guess I’m defective.”  The wind blows away my scarf that I’d placed beside me on the bench.  I step away from the carriage, and chase after it.  I must be 20 feet from Isabella when I see a man walking towards the carriage. My breasts ache, and I am immediately panikced.  I feel the possibility of pain in my child as actual physical pain.  For the first time since she was born I recognized her as a part of myself.           
He looks like he was heading right towards her.  He gives me the creeps.  I run over to my child and scoop her up.  I feel that I could kill him to protect her.  I’d rip eyes out with my bare hands for this tiny extension of myself.  It was pure instinct.  I don’t know if I’ve scared him off, or if he had no intention of harming her in the first place, but he walks away from the carriage.  Once he is far enough away, and my shoulders relax I looked down at her.  Suddenly she is the most beautiful thing in the world.  She is my life. I’d give anything for her.  I guess I never realized how important she is to me until the possibility of losing her became real. Mental note; I love her I love her I love her!  My child, my Bella.