Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  My mom smiles brightly. “That’s so wonderful. I’ll call up to the country club and get you an appointment when you’re ready. There’s a new event coordinator who is just amazing, and the photos of recent weddings on the golf course have been breathtaking.”

  “That’s really thoughtful of you, Mom, but I’m not sure the country club is what we have envisioned for our wedding,” I say. We haven’t done a lick of planning, but I already know that there’s no way in hell we’re getting married at my parents’ country club. I’m sure it would be nice and all, but that would be celebrating their way. Not ours.

  “But I think it could be good to explore all of our options,” Jeff interjects, nodding at me and clearly trying to appease my folks. Which is probably smart because I have no patience or filter with her antics ever since the baby shower.

  I smile politely. “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look at the place,” I say as my mom’s face beams happily.

  After a fair amount of doting and small talk, Jeff and my dad excuse themselves to haul the oversized teddy bear inside the house. I have no idea where we’re going to put this monstrosity of a gift.

  They’re barely out of earshot when my mom turns to me. “You know, Henley, I was serious about my advice at the baby shower. You really should keep up with appearances. You don’t want Jeff to lose interest before you even get married, do you?”

  Um, what?

  “I know you just gave birth, but look at yourself. You came home in your maternity clothes, and I can’t remember the last time I saw you wearing any makeup.”

  Seriously. What?

  “I’m just saying that you need to be mindful of yourself. That’s all.”

  That’s all? Oh, hell no!

  “Mom,” I scold, clenching my hands into fists to keep my arms from shaking. “I came home in my maternity clothes because even though I pushed out an eight pound, ten-ounce baby, I still look like I could be six months pregnant. And that’s okay. Jeff loves me for being me in all of my ridiculous glory. He doesn’t care if my makeup is fresh when he comes home every night, and he certainly doesn’t care if I have a hot meal waiting for him on the dinner table. Lord knows that if I did, it would probably be burned to a crisp. This isn’t the 1950s, Mom. He knows how to handle my neuroses and meltdowns. He knows exactly how to calm my fears. But best of all he’s capable of loving me at my worst, which is probably more than I deserve at times.”

  A soft clearing of the throat comes from the doorway, and we both turn our heads. My dad is looking in at us.

  “Lisa,” my dad chides in a semi-loving tone from the doorway, “give the poor girl a break, will ya? It’s been an emotional few days. Besides, I recall you staying in your pajamas for a week straight when we first got home from the hospital with Henley.”

  My dad gives me a sly, knowing smile. As an only child, I was often on the receiving end of her antics, and he understands how my mom can be a bit much sometimes. Overall, he does what he can to rein her in when she goes rogue. I appreciate the backup, for sure. But you’d think at this age she’d simply know better.

  “Graham!” she gasps, but my father ignores her and redirects his attention to me.

  “Um, we can’t get it through the door,” he confesses.

  Of course you can’t.

  I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. It looks like we’re the proud new owners of a giant teddy bear suit. “Let me guess, you need scissors and a trash bag?” I ask, standing up.

  “Yeah, but you better make it a couple of trash bags. Have you seen the size of that thing?”

  I nod. As I head down the hallway and into the kitchen, I hear my dad say, “I never would’ve guessed that when I came over today, I’d be murdering my granddaughter’s first teddy bear.”

  THE NATURAL DISASTER

  Motherhood.

  It’s the most glorious blur of snuggles and sleepless nights, and holy swizzle sticks how can so much poop come from something so small.

  And speaking of poop, I’m convinced that diapers don’t hold poop in. They simply redirect poop up the back and out the arm holes, defiling whatever adorable frilly outfit I’ve got Lily in on any given day.

  Jeff is constantly telling me that I’m a natural. But really, we both know that I’m a natural disaster. In fact, this whole motherhood thing is one giant natural disaster.

  Even still, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. But she’s still in one piece, and I haven’t broken her yet. So I must be doing something right.

  I guess.

  I just feel like I’m missing out on something.

  GIRL SCOUT TEARS AND THE PERFECT PENIS

  A soft knock at the door breaks me from my trance. I’ve been sitting on the couch staring into the vast nothing of our family room for who knows how long. Lillian’s asleep in her crib, and me …

  Well, there’s about a billion and one things I could be doing. Should be doing, honestly. Laundry. Dishes. Vacuuming. Shaving my legs for the first time since Lily’s arrival. But the only thing I’ve been able to will myself to do today is to sit here on the couch and pretend that I’m okay.

  Thankfully, whoever it was, heeded the sign I taped over the doorbell that said “Baby sleeping. Ring this and die.” It became a necessity after an overzealous troop of Girl Scouts rang the doorbell incessantly, waking Lillian after it took me almost three hours to get her to sleep. I may or may not have opened the door and unleashed the exhausted, stressed-out beast upon them. And then I felt so badly for screaming at them, I sat on the front steps and sobbed. And then I bought every last box of thin mints they had in their little red wagons because I felt so guilty. It was a two hundred dollar lesson in the simple art of telling people exactly what you do — and don’t — want them to do.

  Don’t ring my doorbell.

  Do give me all the cookies without judgment.

  Lesson learned.

  But whoever it is on the other side of the door knocks gingerly again.

  Damn it! Go away.

  I resolved around seven thirty this morning that I wouldn’t be seeing anyone today when I elected to stay in the same clothes that I had been wearing the past three days. With Jeff out of town on business, it's a little luxury for me.

  I bring the mug of hot chamomile tea to my lips and nearly choke the liquid down. It’s cold. How long I’ve been sitting here completely out of it?

  “Henley? Are you here?” Tara’s voice calls out softly. She’s taken the liberty of letting herself in with the key we’ve hidden underneath the flower pot on the front porch.

  “Hen?” she calls out again, closing the door softly behind her. Her delicate footfalls traipse down the hallway toward me.

  “Oh. Hey, T.” I force a smile and try to add some enthusiasm to my voice, but fail miserably.

  Tara sets her purse on the floor and takes a seat next to me on the couch. She eyes me cautiously. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I’ve been wanting to come see you and get some of those Lily snuggles and whiffs of her fresh baby smell that are sure to make my ovaries explode, but you haven’t returned my phone calls.”

  Her voice isn’t accusatory. It’s just matter of fact. Sad, even. And even though she’s not giving me a guilt trip, it’s impossible not to feel like the shittiest friend in existence of shitty friends. I'm pretty shitty at everything these days it seems.

  “I know … Things have just been crazy busy.” I swallow the anxiety and will confidence into my voice. My eyes scan the room, and I pretend not to see the disaster that lays before me. Dirty plates with half eaten sandwiches are stacked on the coffee table, and there are four baskets of clean laundry that need folding underneath the window.

  My best friend is here for some long overdue girl time. The last thing she wants to hear is me melting down over the fact I still look five months pregnant when I’m six weeks postpartum.

  I just don't understand how so many women bounce back so easily. Just last week a man at the bank asked when I wa
s due. I simply bit my lip and said, “No hablo anglais,” and diverted my attention across the room. But then he said, ‘Y cuandu nace su bebe?’ and I completely lost it. I bolted out of the bank faster than a toupee in a hurricane, without even bothering to get the cashier’s check I needed. I had no business driving home considering I could barely see the road through my mass hysterics.

  “Yeah, motherhood does make you pretty crazy busy,” she deadpans before shifting her weight on the couch. "So how have you been? And I mean really been. Because I love the shit out of you, Henley, and you’re not fooling anyone right now.”

  I sigh and fight the tears pricking the edges of my eyes. “It's going,” I squeak. Mostly because life is going. It’s just not taking me along for the ride.

  Tara says nothing, but her look tells me just how worried she is. It’s so quiet between us you can practically hear the foundation of my very being crack under the pressure I’m feeling. The guilt I can't understand. The sadness that consumes me.

  “I’ve managed to keep us all alive the past few weeks, so at least I’ve got that going for me,” I add, desperate to fill the silence.

  Tara playfully slaps her hand against my knee. “Don’t be so overdramatic. Of course you guys are all alive. That’s because you’re doing a great job, Mom. You’ve got this kick ass tiny human who loves you more than you can even comprehend. And from what I’ve gathered from Cam, Jeff’s new gig seems to be going well. Things will start to level out soon. They always do.”

  She doesn’t realize how many nights I’ve cried myself to sleep after Jeff had passed out, terrified that somehow I am going to fuck my daughter up beyond all comprehension. She’s going to spend the majority of of her life in therapy, and it’s all going to be my fault.

  “I don’t feel like I’m doing a good job. Most days, I’m barely hanging on by a thread.”

  “Spoiler alert — nearly all moms feel that way. Even the celebrity moms who have an army of nannies waiting in the wings.”

  “Really? Did you feel that useless, like your mom card should be revoked?”

  Tara looks at me bewildered. “Are you kidding me? One day Cam came home to find me in the bathroom, boobs wrapped in cabbage to help ease the swelling, crying into a bottle of non-alcoholic beer because I didn’t have three arms to help soothe the boys simultaneously when they were teething.”

  I suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous. And like a horrible friend. I never truly understood the trials and tribulations she went through with triplets. I can’t even begin to imagine feeling this stressed out three times over. Tara deserves a fucking congressional medal of honor for getting out of bed each morning.

  Just when I’m about to apologize for not being around more, she says, “What’s really on your mind right now, babe? You look like hell, and based on the Pig-Pen-esque cloud of dirt circling around you, I’m questioning if you’ve showered at all this week.” Tara wraps her arm around my shoulder, and I completely and totally lose it.

  “I just have no idea what I’m doing!” I wail pathetically. Every part of me feels like it is screaming I am not okay! even if the words never make it past my lips.

  “Oh, Henley, no mother does. We’re all just winging it hoping to do a better job than our own mothers did with us.”

  I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to press away the tears. Every part of me feels like it is screaming “I am not good at this!” even if the words never make it past my lips. “I mean, what if I don’t wake up when she’s crying? What if I forget to feed her and she starves to death? What if I accidentally leave the window open and an eagle swoops in and carries Lillian off into the wilderness to be raised by a pack of wolves?”

  Tara stifles a laugh, trying not to make light of my ridiculously irrational fears.

  “Stop laughing! I'm being serious!” I smear the tears away from my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Sweetie, all of those things are virtually impossible.”

  “You don’t know that! I just feel so … so blah lately. Like no matter how hard I try, I just can’t pull my shit together.”

  Tara sits up a little taller, trading her humor for a little more sympathy and advice. “Have you been getting out at all lately? Maybe a little retail therapy could help, or even going for a walk with Lily to get some fresh air?”

  I shift in my seat and exhale long and hard. "I tried going to the gym earlier this week since my doctor cleared me. Tried being the operative word."

  "Oh sweetie, that seems a bit aggressive. She's only six weeks old. What'd you do?"

  "I did about twenty minutes of Zumba, followed by ten minutes on a defibrillator, and then twenty-four hours in the hospital."

  “Wait … what?! You were in the hospital?" she says in a panic.

  "Well, no, but I may as well have been. By the time I bailed halfway through that Zumba class, I would have happily taken an extended nap in the morgue."

  I don’t tell her that the thought of having a night of uninterrupted sleep in the friendly confines of a hospital actually sounds inviting. This whole sleep when the baby sleeps thing is a crock of shit. I haven’t been sleeping at all, and this zombie-state I’ve been living in isn’t conducive to adulting in the slightest.

  She laughs softly and shakes her head. "That sounds a bit like Cam's short-lived stint at CrossFit. Somewhere between putting his shoes on and reviewing the infamous workout of the day, he got CrossFit mixed up with croissant. He hasn’t gone back since. But that little bakery he found with the chocolate filled pastries? They’re on a first name basis now.”

  I smile weakly, appreciating the effort to get me to laugh. But the thought of laughter hurts my soul. “Just this weekend, I spilled breast milk right after I was done pumping and completely lost it. Jeff was all ‘don’t cry over spilt milk, Henley.’ and I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face.”

  “He really said that?”

  I nod in response, still upset over the incident.

  “Breast milk is the only milk worth crying over. That shit is liquid gold.”

  We talk about nothing and everything like we always do, but I just can't get into the conversation. She tells me all about the latest antics of the boys, and how Cam surprised her with a weekend getaway for her birthday. Which only makes me feel shittier because I am, of course, the girl who forgot her best friend’s birthday.

  “I feel like I can’t do anything right. I completely flaked on your birthday, and I so desperately want to disappear because all of this is so overwhelming. I’ve been a terrible friend, horrible and neurotic around Jeff, and I don’t feel like I can really enjoy this newborn phase because I’m so focused on everything I’m doing wrong and simply not doing in my life.”

  Tara takes my hand in hers and squeezes gently. “All moms go through this, sweetie.”

  “Really, Tara? Do they really?”

  “Well … yeah. It’s called motherhood.”

  “Did you ever think about running away and leaving it all behind when you were at home with the triplets?”

  Tara snorts. “All the damn time. These boys, they’re my Everest. Try as I may, I want to run away at some point each and every single damn day. It’s like I will never be able to conquer the triple threat. You’re not alone on the struggle bus, Henley. We’re all along for the ride, but we all take our own turns behind the wheel.”

  Her words strike me like a hot iron, and I can’t help but wonder how many women I know have been in these same shoes. I still don’t understand why more women don’t talk about how rough and exhausting it is to be at home with a newborn. Mommin’ is some tough shit on every level imaginable. And sometimes, right smack in the middle of a beautiful, happy life, we find ourselves unhappy for reasons unknown. And I need to remember that that’s okay.

  Silently Tara pulls a dirty nursing bra out from underneath her leg and takes in her surroundings. “Hen, you have to take better care of yourself.”

  I divert my eyes, shamefully.


  “Don’t feel like you have to go out and run a marathon. Just start small. Take a shower right when you wake up and put on fresh clothes. Read a book. Leave for an hour or so to get your nails done. Lillian will be fine with Jeff or Auntie T or, God forbid, those nut cases that are your parents. But that little girl needs you to do whatever it is you have to do to be okay. Me and Jeff, too.”

  And instantly, I know she’s right. First and foremost, I have to take care of myself — you can’t pour from an empty cup.

  “And everyone under the sun can tell you what an amazing job you’re doing at being a mom—which, by the way, you are. But at the end of the day, you need to believe that in your heart of hearts.”

  I look at my hands, knotted together in my lap. “I know.”

  “Just do me one favor?”

  “What’s that?” I sigh. I’m not sure I’m humanly capable of one more favor, even if it is for my best friend.

  “Promise me that you’ll call your doctor and at least ask her to talk about postpartum depression? I don’t know much about it, but I do feel like it’s worth having the conversation with her. And, if anything, she can help you without any judgment. You spent nine months growing a human in your body and then in a matter of moments you birthed that baby and those hormones bottomed out, forcing your emotions and chemical balance to get out of whack.”

  And there’s that word.

  Depression.

  The one I’ve been avoiding the past six weeks.

  Why is it that we, as moms, are incapable of recognizing the symptoms when they slap us so obviously in the face? Why do we act like depression is such a bad word? It’s not. It’s something completely out of our control, but if we’re honest with ourselves, we can control the outcome.

  I look up at her, trying to hide the worry in my eyes. “Is that all PPD is? A chemical imbalance?”

  “Eh, something like that. I’m not really one hundred percent sure,” she admits and then gets lost in thought for a flashing moment. “I just wish PPD stood for something more awesome. Like post penis depression and not this postpartum bullshit.”