The pleasant side of Glenn’s personality is the one I married; the other side—an unwanted, uninvited, surly possession—tagged along like an evil twin.
But moving on from all that I asked, sipping nausea-curbing lemonade, “What should we name her?”
“Harley.”
“Harley? You can’t be serious,” I said, shoveling in another bite of grilled sockeye.
“I should get something I want since I’m not getting a boy.”
“We are not naming the baby Harley.” It was an over my dead body statement.
“Okay, then I’ll just get a real one.” Glenn smiled smugly.
“Oh no.”
“What? You got what you wanted, so I get what I want.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “You are comparing apples and oranges. What sex our child is has nothing to do with you getting a motorcycle. Besides, we can’t afford it. You already have us roped into payments on the Whidbey land.”
Glenn saw the world as he wanted it to be at any given moment, a visionary, changing daily, sometimes antagonistically so. Sometimes the visions came true.
“Yeah and when we sell our house and move over there, I’ll ride my motorcycle to work and that’ll save ferry toll. See, I am thinking of saving money,” he said, proud of his household budgeting skills.
“Can you be serious and suggest some names?” I asked, tired of the frustrating, stress-inducing run around.
“I am serious,” he said.
That night I dreamt I was having kittens. In my fitful sleep, the baby flipped, somersaulted, and kicked like a squirming litter. ‘What are you going to name them?’ the nurse asked as she handed me a birth certificate.
‘I’ll name it after its father, Reese,’ I answered. The furry newborn mewed an irresistible kitten mew and stared at me with bright blue eyes like those of a Siamese.
Half-awake, lying in the dark, I wondered why I had only named one when I’d had a whole litter and then I wondered why I dreamt of giving birth to Reese’s kittens in the first place. The dream warmed me inside and I felt safe. I felt secure, as I had in the past, when Reese was a pen stroke away, always there to listen.
“Glenn,” I said, prodding him to wake up. “I want to name the baby Sydney.”
* * *
“What’s for dinner?” Glenn asked Mother’s Day afternoon—while I washed the lunch dishes.
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You sent Mom a card didn’t you? It’s Mother’s Day you know,” Glenn said as he sat mesmerized by ESPN.
I was painfully aware it was Mother’s Day. My visions of being pampered, Glenn assuming the chores, a vase full of flowers . . . took the form of my wildest, unobtainable dreams.
“Yes. I sent Mother’s Day cards a week ago.” My hurt feelings coaxed stressed-out hormonal tears. “Why didn’t you get me flowers?”
“For what?” Glenn asked. He filled his mouth with another handful of beer nuts.
“Mother’s Day,” I answered, wishing I had a brick to drive it home.
“You’re not a mother.” His answer was plain and simple.
“I’ve carried this kid for nine months, watching what I eat, watching what I breathe, making plans, buying clothes and diapers—and I’m not a mother?”
Glenn thought for a moment. “I’ll take you out to eat if you want.” He flipped channels.
“I thought it’d be fun if you made me dinner,” I said, thinking how nice Glenn thoughtfully caring for me would feel.
“No it wouldn’t. Choose the restaurant and let me know.”
* * *
Sydney Megan Conroy was born on May 13th at 4:25 a.m., an hour and a half after we arrived at the hospital. Documenting the whole experience, Glenn took a few moments in our driveway to photograph me, doubled over in pain.
“I don’t want to do this,” I said, nearly in tears, on the ride over. I hoped for a miracle—the baby would disappear, no need to come out. Instead God had me on remote control, pushing the ‘torturous pain’ button every few minutes.
At the maternity ward reception desk, I explained the particulars. The nurse said, “You don’t look that uncomfortable.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Glenn, agreeing with her like I didn’t recognize my own body’s excruciating distress, the likes of which so severe I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
I wanted to say, with no mincing of words, ‘no shit, I’m between contractions,’ but just then my face turned red, beading with sweat. Instead of screaming in agonizing pain, I buried my head in the crook of my elbow right there at the nurse’s station, half bent over. “Maybe you are that far along,” the nurse said, “I’ll get you a wheelchair.”
I questioned my wholesome decision to have a natural childbirth as an internal vice bore down, gripping my midsection, leaving me useless to do anything but lie in the hospital bed and pant.
“Lift her leg,” the nurse said to Glenn while supporting my left. He raised my right leg at an unnaturally unnatural angle, ‘helping.’ He held it much higher than the nurse’s yogic hoist.
“How bad does it hurt?” Glenn asked.
The pain of squeezing out a baby elephant severely eclipsed the pain of my Glenn-induced, jacked-up and possibly dislocated hip. Pins and needles tingled my lips, and my face started to follow suit. I could only reply, “Oh, my god,” repeatedly, while another nurse strapped an oxygen mask to my face.
Trying to make me feel better, Glenn said, “It can’t be that bad.”
Then I was having kittens. Otherwise occupied, I could not adequately explain this to Glenn. “Oh, my god,” I cried, mid-push, praying it was over.
Birthing Sydney made the excruciating pain of nervous cramps seem like a slight twinge, however, the outcome, more pleasant. Despite my controlled screams and suffering, I was thankful for what the doctor called a ‘textbook’ birth. “I wish they all were like that,” he said. I’d managed to escape the forceps intrusion my mother had experienced with her first born, giving new meaning to ‘ripping her a new one.’
Sydney, alert with wide-open eyes, looked no less cute than a new puppy, an uncommon occurrence, contradicting my newborn stereotype. Her seal-pup eyes peering into my mommy soul made enduring the worst pain of my life worth every unbearable moment. The best things in life weren’t free.
“I’m so proud of you,” Glenn said to me while admiring his daughter cradled in my arms. “You did great.”
“Thank you.” I took his compliment even though I was merely a tortured puppet. Giving birth was as involuntary as taking an urgent dump, except drawn out and grueling.
After the baby and I settled in at the hospital, Glenn, bursting with pride, hurried home to announce our new addition. The flock of It’s a Girl storks he had migrated from the garage to all over the front yard, greeted us when we, too, returned.
Sydney disappeared into her bundling on her first ride home, large eyes peeking between stocking cap and car seat restraints. Certainly she was the most beautiful newborn I had ever laid eyes upon. Baby Sydney, so vulnerable and dependent on me for her well-being, was an awesome and frightening reality. Each time we ran errands, I had visions of car accidents snuffing out my life and disturbing thoughts of what would happen to her if anything happened to me. Surely no one could nurture her as well as I. My duty as a mother hit home with each glance in the rear view mirror and each gaze into her innocent and helpless eyes. And what a stolen privilege it would be if I could not raise her up and see her blossom into the fine woman I knew she would become. It was a privilege I guarded as I had guarded nothing before, a fierce desire to be there for her and be her mom. It scared me to think of anything that could keep me from it.
The shortest twelve weeks of my life passed in a blur of service. I had no post-partum depression, only back-to-work depression when my leave was over. Until then, I had a twisted post-partum elation in spite of the rigorous schedule
which caught me by surprise. Feed the baby, change the baby, do the laundry, console the baby, shower when baby naps. Feed baby, change baby, do laundry, coddle baby, pray for naptime. Feed, change, fold, wash, try making dinner, and so on.
“Did you get my shirts ironed?” Glenn asked. I looked at him like he was insane. “Well, you’ve been home all day; you’re not working. I thought you could at least iron.”
“No promises,” I said, miffed that he could not see how caring for a baby all day was literally draining. Exasperated, I threw in, “She got up three times last night.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“If it was up to you, she’d starve,” I said, holding Sydney on one hip while setting the table.
“Good thing it’s not up to me then,” he said, missing the point, then pulled out a house-plan magazine. “What do you think of this one?” he asked.
“Looks expensive.”
“I didn’t ask how much it costs, I asked what you thought.”
“I told you what I thought.”
“You are so hard to talk to, do you know that?” Glenn started to get mad.
“Look, you asked me what I thought and I told you. Yeah, it’s a nice house, but what good is it if we can’t afford it?”
“We can afford it if we want to.”
“We can’t cover a bigger house, and if we have another kid, daycare for two. Daycare’s expensive.”
“Well, if we can’t afford another kid, then we won’t have one,” Glenn said with the same discretion as foregoing popcorn at a movie because it busted the budget.
“What? Just like that you decide an only child is fine?”
“You said yourself, we couldn’t afford another one.”
“No, I said we couldn’t afford another one if we moved into a bigger house. Why don’t we stay here, have another baby and move when the kids are older and daycare doesn’t cost so much?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he said as if his opinion was the only one that mattered, which was essentially true because he could make my life a living hell if he didn’t get what he wanted, and then he’d get it in the end anyway. It happened before.
“Okay,” I said, resigned, “why don’t we move and have another baby in about four years when Sydney will be at the preschool rate and we’ll have a few raises by then?”
“No. I’ll be too old. I don’t want people thinking I’m the kid’s grandpa.”
I let the exaggeration go, but made another point instead. “I can’t help it that you took so long to marry me.” I felt like I’d gotten a raw deal on both ends.
* * *
“So when’s the next baby?” Megan asked, stroking Sydney’s angel hair.
“There isn’t going to be a next baby. Glenn’s getting fixed,” I blurted out, forgetting that I had been sworn to secrecy.
“What? She’s not even a year old and you’re already calling it quits?”
I relayed the whole story about Glenn wanting to live on Whidbey Island, not being able to afford two childcares and a higher house payment, and Glenn’s declaration that he would be too old in a few years when we would have the financial means. “When you add all that up, it’s the logical thing to do,” I said. “Glenn wanted three kids before we got married; now he’s happy with an only—says siblings don’t get along anyway.”
I paused, gazing at Sydney, love spilling over into an uncontained eternal font. “I didn’t want Sydney to be an only child. After she was born and I found that I could do the mom thing . . . . It wasn’t near as bad as I thought. I knew I wanted another one.”
Megan began to rock Sydney as she listened.
“I never thought I was cut out for motherhood and never understood what all the fuss was about, until it happened. I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” I said, watching Sydney gum her teething rings.
Megan nodded, understanding my transformation best she could, yet I knew she would not fully comprehend until it happened to her. No one without children would understand reaching out—as a child turned green—bare handed, ready to catch what an upset tummy rejected. I’d been in Megan’s shoes, straining to see the appeal of a freedom-snatching, spitting-up, poop machine, but I could see Sydney’s soft cuteness tugging at Megan’s heart. How could anyone not love her to pieces?
I held Sydney’s warm little baby foot in my hand, caressing her tiny toes and feeling sorry for her—only having parents as family. She stirred. David slapped at her hands with his paw, ready to play. He wasn’t quite as in her face as the wild deer had been on her first picnic outdoors. My mother instinct had kicked in just after it walked up to the picnic table and sniffed the baby carrier, but before it could taste her. Looking back at David I thought, at least she’ll have a pet.
* * *
“I got tickets to the Monster truck races on Saturday,” Glenn announced like an excited child. “We’re going.”
“What about Sydney?” I asked.
“What about her? Bring her with,” Glenn said, not seeing the problem.
At the races, Sydney squirmed in her seat when she wasn’t crying.
“She keeps pulling off her earphones,” I yelled over the roar of the engines.
“What?” Glenn yelled back.
“Never mind,” I said, getting up from my seat, taking Sydney with me. Glenn watched us, a questioning look on his face. I pointed toward the restroom. He nodded, settling back in on Grave Digger.
The restroom had no baby changing station, but who’d really expect one at a race track? I smelled a severe problem. With no other choice but to lay her on a grimy, concrete floor, I took her into a stall and sat down on the open-rimmed toilet seat, fully clothed with her on my lap. I changed her poopy butt, maneuvering mainly with just one hand, the other making sure wriggling Sydney didn’t fall. Sydney nuzzled against me, hungry. Feeling hurried because of the line I heard forming outside, we vacated the stall. I washed my hands, then pulled up an uncomfortable seat on the cold, hard floor and nursed Sydney, all the while listening to the Monsters tearing through the grandstands. Some of the women gave us looks of disgust, but most gave glances of pity, as though they’d been there and done that. One even stopped to speak. “You’re so dedicated,” she said, which made me smile for a second and feel pleased with myself for a minute. “Breast is best.” Her loose, long pony tail, low-cut billowy blouse and bell bottoms swept by as she left.
We returned to our seat. Glenn handed me a bag of popcorn. “What took you so long?” he asked, not waiting for an answer, “You missed a good one.” He pointed.
I looked up to see The Predator lying on its side, spinning its wheels. “It’s too loud. I’m going back here,” I yelled, this time pointing to the walkway where I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around with Sydney, me nibbling popcorn.
“You can’t eat this,” I said. Sydney grabbed at my snack while I readjusted her headphones. “Here, this is for you.” I handed Sydney a hard biscuit I had unearthed from her diaper bag. She happily slobbered it to mush, gunking up her hands until the race ended.
Gridlock caused tempers to flare in the parking lot, everyone in a rush to get home. An impatient asshole was honking and forcing his way into traffic.
“Hey,” a passerby warned. “Back up, he’s going to hit you.”
He didn’t back off.
Wait a minute, that asshole was in the car with me. The van in front crept along, shaving a curly-q peel from my bumper with its wheel well.
I wondered what kind of example this was for Sydney, and had second thoughts about wanting another child, thoughts I beat back. At least if Glenn got hit by a bus, I’d still have a family. But what if it was an impressionable boy who’d think this was the way you were supposed to act?
Glenn forced our way in line so we could take our rightful place amongst the masses. Ten minutes later, I still saw the same grasshopper resting on the same curbside weed.
* * *
Dear Megan,
The deed is done.
Glenn spent the weekend sitting on frozen peas and Sydney is officially an only child. The literature says that couples are supposed to have a new sense of freedom, no worry of getting pregnant, but I felt more as if someone had died.
Moving on. Glenn just told me that XB wants us to move again! I can’t believe it. Just when we were getting settled. We love it here so much, I can’t tell you how much. They want him to take a job in Colorado Springs at Cheyenne Mountain. I can’t for the life of me figure out why they would want him there for building airplanes, but they do all kinds of secret stuff and I probably told you more than I should have already. Glenn says it is an excellent career opportunity for him—a once-in-a-lifetime and he should take it. So much for the Whidbey plans. Glenn wants to keep the land for retirement—says we can move back someday.
I think my heart is going to break wide open. I love everything about here, being close to you, my great job, daycare is awesome, neighbors are terrific . . . . I’ll let you know the details, but Glenn thinks we could move within three months. We would have been here nearly three years. Seems like only yesterday.
I took a look at the housing market down there. I think we can get something decent for a great price, so with Glenn’s raise, maybe I won’t have to find a job. Maybe I can be a stay-at-home mom, taking care of Sydney full time so I won’t be so frazzled at the end of the day, chasing my tail all the time, but never catching it. I can only hope something good will come of this.
Love, Camryn
* * *
There were no lights in the bedroom after the movers packed up every last thing. Only dim twilight cast a shadow from Sydney’s portable crib. I picked her up to nurse in the near dark, listening to Glenn run the vacuum through the hollowed halls downstairs. My hands stung, having been rubbed raw from scouring the tubs, showers and toilets, leaving the house pristine for its new owners. I rocked with Sydney, back and forth on the carpet in the empty room instead of in the rocking chair, rocking myself as much as her. Sydney opened her eyes one brief last time before dozing off in my arms, oblivious to the upheaval. When I left my badge at work, never to come in again, it felt as though the cord had been cut—not a cord to bring new life, but the cord of my parachute, leaving me in a free fall, unable to save myself. It was too much. I started to cry again, as much as I had cried when I picked Sydney up for the last time at daycare. The daycare ladies blubbered as well, watching Sydney crawl and pull up for the last time, leaving us with pictures and goodbye cards, love and good wishes.
Love, Carry My Bags Page 32