by Ariella Papa
“Emily, let’s go,” I said. I scooped her up in my arms. She was kicking her legs, but luckily I had my arms wrapped around her arms. I turned to Jacob. “Come on, honey.”
He followed me down the stairs, slowly. He looked as if he was going to cry too. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I grabbed his hand and hurried him with a quick good-bye to the teachers. Normally, it might take me a half hour to get them out of the facility. Often I tried to reason with them, but not today. Usually I worried that someone would judge me if I did what I wanted to do instead of what they wanted to do, but today I wanted to be home. I wanted to feed them dinner and be alone.
And that’s what I did. Outside the center, I got them both in their double stroller. Emily continued to scream for a few blocks, and for once, I didn’t bother to look at anyone’s face as they passed. Screw them if they hadn’t ever seen a crying toddler before. It happened.
By not looking at anyone, I couldn’t interpret any judgment. It felt good to walk and tune Emily out. It wasn’t that hard.
Back at home I made them mac and cheese. Quick and not particularly nutritious, but I wasn’t going to fight with them about anything green tonight. I skipped the bath and read two stories. Jacob fell asleep during the second one. And miraculously, Emily went to bed.
When I shut the door to their room, I almost collapsed against it. I went into my room and pulled off my suit and tights. It was such a relief to unhook my bra. I wanted my softest pajamas against my skin. I put on the light pink silk pajama my mother–in-law had given me as a birthday gift. I imagined that Keith could see me in them. I enjoyed the idea of that for a minute. I felt sexy. But then I went to the mirror and noticed how tired I looked. There was no way he was going to want this.
But he had definitely winked at me. Hadn’t he? And then in my office, something else had happened.
In the kitchen, I grabbed the pot of macaroni and cheese and ate a few bites. It had gotten cold and congealed a little, but I was hungry, so I ate the rest of it while looking over their daily forms. According to the report, they had a wonderful day “exploring” finger paints. I had a pretty good idea of the mess their exploration consisted of. I crumpled the sheets up and threw them in the trash. Then I felt nauseated from the pasta in my stomach.
I went into the parlor. My house was rarely this quiet. Most nights when I was done putting the kids to bed, I hopped on email, but I didn’t want to tonight.
I turned on the TV. I flipped through all our cable stations. I don’t know why we kept such an expensive cable package. We never watched TV, and now that I wanted to watch something, nothing appealed to me. I checked out our DVR list. It was full of kids’ shows and stuff that Peter had requested from the Discovery Channel.
I turned off the TV. The room was dark again. But it was what I wanted. I realized that my whole afternoon and evening had been me hurtling forward trying to get to this moment where I could be alone. I wanted to be alone so I could think about Keith.
I lay back on the couch. My days were so scheduled, so similar. This was supposed to be a day like any other day. I half expected my life to be full of days that were alike. It never bothered me. I thought I preferred it that way. But this day was different because of Keith. And I wasn’t sure what that meant for the rest of my days.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure everything was going to go along according to plan.
Chapter 7
Kirsten Cooks, Frets, Chills, and Almost Loses Her Shit
The best thing to calm a frenzied mind is making a chicken potpie.
The dish was a fairly common offering on the menu at our house. It was a crowd-pleaser, a complete meal.
Usually a premade crust would do. I never actually admitted that I went store bought to David. He was sensitive about these kinds of things, being from a family that prided itself on fresh baked goods. Sometimes it was easier to go to the supermarket and pick up a Pillsbury and hide the evidence by using the crust the day of and burying the box in the trash. I always used free-range chicken, though. I had my defense ready if I was ever questioned.
But there were times when my mind was racing, that only a fresh flaky homemade crust would do. This was one of those times.
There was nothing as simple, as calming, as perfect as rolling out dough. You could let your mind go and let your senses tell you if you were doing it right. It slowed you down. Naomi was tied in the sling on my back. She was napping. I had nursed her while the dough was cooling in the fridge. Sage was at my feet on the floor of the kitchen, playing with pots and whisks. He was wearing his sister’s ballet slippers.
I wanted to let go. I wanted to find that place where I felt like a housewife, rolling dough for my family, filled with love and generosity. This act and so many like it had fulfilled millions of women before me. There was beauty in it, beauty in the love a woman feels for her brood. The need to nurture often comforted me when I felt useless. It filled me up.
But not today. Today, no matter how well I rolled, I couldn’t shake the emptiness. It bothered me. I worried that it could take hold and pull me under. And then what? Who would keep the kids moving when I was hiding under the covers? Who would entertain Julissa and calm Sage and nurse Naomi? I couldn’t fail them.
Throughout high school, I had suffered from depression. My parents thought I was a moody, artistic type. My guidance counselor assured them I was just misunderstood and would find my footing when I got to art school. I believed that. Since I was in kindergarten, I was the kid who was known as the artist.
“Kirsten can draw,” kids said.
“Kirsten’s best subject is art,” my teachers wrote in their notes home to my parents.
“Kirsten is more of a creative type,” I heard my mother explaining almost apologetically to her siblings.
And even as I dealt with depression in high school, when I was a total misfit, the idea that I had this one talent sated me. If I could hold out until art school, if I could survive the daily humiliating walk through the halls, I would eventually be ok.
And then I got to art school. I was ready for it to be my place, to find my niche, to feel at home. But instead . . . I was completely overwhelmed. Art school was full of people like me. These people had been told the same things I had been all their lives. And when I started seeing their work, I knew that I wasn’t the only person who was capable of creating. It paralyzed me. At last I gave into the depression. Now there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I had reached the light and it filled me with doubts.
But luckily, my school was used to kids feeling this way. Artists are a volatile bunch and the mental health services at my school were prepared for my problem. I got therapy and some medication and I worked through it. I let myself create. I let myself not be the best artist in the room. It actually wasn’t something I allowed, it just was. Other people were good. They could create and that challenged me.
I kicked the depression and along with David and my children, it has been one of my greatest sources of pride. I made it through.
And now, I was feeling the persistent tug of something in the back of my head. That old familiar doubt and confusion was creeping back into my life. I doubted David’s feelings. I doubted that I was doing enough with my life. I knew it was important to raise my kids the way we were. I was confident about my mothering. But still, in spite of that, something was missing.
I had jumped back into working with both feet. In two weeks, I had eleven clients. David was thrilled. I no longer held my breath when I went to the ATM or worried that a debt collector was going to be on the other end of the phone. But as I scanned through the pictures of other people’s children, I had a glimpse, a small glimpse of the talent I used to have. I was squandering it. I hadn’t done a project that really gripped me in years.
The parents I worked for were so appreciative. I told myself that these photographs, these documents, would be with families for years. Someday years from now, my subjects’ descendents w
ould see my work. That was amazing to think about. It was a legacy. I knew it should have made me joyful.
But it made me empty.
I also thought that by doing what David wanted he would be happier with me. To an outsider, things might seem fine. He was as involved with our kids as ever, but after the kids were in bed, in what used to be our time to hang and connect, he was on the computer in the studio. I didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t making art. In the past, I would have gone in there to work, but the few times that I did he made me feel unwelcome. It was nothing he said. It was that he didn’t really look at me. And when he did—granted my vision is hypersensitive—something was missing. I couldn’t quite figure out why I wasn’t pursuing it. We never used to have secrets from each other. Now something was hanging over us and I was running from finding out what it was.
And so I was rolling the dough out for two chicken potpies. One was for my children and another was for the new mother who lived next door to a client. It had been over a week since I had seen her. I wanted to bake this for her as soon as we met. I wanted to get her something, because the beginning is so hard.
I recognized the signs of depression creeping up. It’s a certain wild look in the eye. It’s those times when a small gesture can make all the difference, can keep you from going off the deep end and feeling completely alone.
I finished rolling the dough and constructed the pies. I had a couple of hours before I had to pick up Julissa at preschool. Naomi was still asleep. I could probably manage the transfer into the car seat without disturbing her. Sage was in a good mood, so I decided to drive over to Ruth’s without cooking the pie.
I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want Ruth to feel that she had to shower or clean the house or do anything. I was just going to pop over and give her the directions on cooking and be on my merry way. I could also stop at the supermarket since I had the car and time until I needed to get Jules.
I packed the kids up and drove over.
“Mama, whose house is this?” Sage asked as we stood on Ruth’s stoop. He looked scared. He was a little bit off since I wouldn’t let him wear the ballet slippers, but he insisted on wearing Julissa’s pink headband. I had chosen not to fight that battle. I hoped it was just a phase, but if it was, it was lasting a long time.
“Sweetheart, I told you, it’s a woman named Ruth and her baby, Abe’s house. We are going to give her some chicken potpie and say hello to the new baby. It’s a brand-new baby. Don’t you want to see the new baby?”
“I dunno,” he said skeptically. Then he became more decisive. “I don’t want to. We have to get Jules.”
“I know, honey, but we have at least an hour and a half until she gets out of preschool, so we can visit with our friends and go to the store and then get Jules. It’s going to be superduper.” I cringed from using the word that I only used with clients, but I wanted to keep the excitement level up. While Julissa went with the flow, I needed to explain things to Sage over and over. The kid did not like surprises. I heard Ruth coming to the door. I put on my most excited mom grin and said, “Here she comes, let’s get ready to say hello.”
Ruth opened the door. She still looked tired, but she was a lot more rested than she had a week earlier. Abe was sleeping in the front carrier. It seemed like Ruth had taken a shower in the past two days. That was a big accomplishment.
“Hi,” she said. She ran a hand through her reddish brown hair and pulled out an elastic, but then quickly retied it.
“Hello there,” I pushed the tin foil covered pie dish at her. “I made you a chicken pot-pie. I figured you ate meat because I saw bacon in your fridge.”
“You did,” she asked, with a small smile. “Well, I do.”
“Well, good. You just need to cook for a half hour at 400. And if you don’t want to eat it in the next few days, I would cook it and throw it in the freezer.”
“Thanks. Thank you so much. That’s so nice, I mean, wow, thank you,” she said. She took the pie out of my hands and slowly turned it from side to side. Really it was only a pie plate covered in tin foil, but for a minute I thought she might cry. That was not my intention at all.
She looked down at Sage and over at Naomi, who was still thankfully asleep in her sling. I saw the expression on her face trying to figure out if Sage was a girl or a boy. “Who are these folks?”
“This is my son, Sage,” I said, putting my hands in his hair. Lately, I had been preemptively making his gender clear as often as possible. “Can you say hi, sweetheart?”
“Hi,” Sage said and grabbed onto my leg.
“Is that your sister?” Ruth asked.
“Yes,” Sage nodded. “She seven months old and Mama give nanas.”
“Breast-feeding,” I explained. “It’s fascinating.”
“It certainly is,” she said, still smiling at him. “What is your sister’s name?”
“Naomi and Julissa.”
“How nice,” Ruth said. She looked up at me.
“Julissa is at school right now,” I explained.
“For a hap hour,” Sage explained.
“Well, it’s an hour and a half, honey,” I said. I wanted him to understand that we had more time. There was no reason to worry. And I realized that it might have sounded like I wanted to spend that time with Ruth. I explained. “We are going to head to the grocery store and pick up some supplies. We wanted to make sure you were ok and bring you the pie.”
“Oh, you aren’t going to stay?” Ruth asked. “You guys can come in.”
“We don’t want to bother you, for real,” I said. “You should put him down and get a nap yourself.”
“Oh, I can’t sleep right now,” Ruth, said. “I’m too happy enjoying the quiet. He was up all night last night. I thought that babies were supposed to need around twenty hours of sleep a day. Not this guy. But it looks like Naomi has that figured out. Maybe she can come in and teach Abe.”
“Don’t be fooled, she is putting on a good show, right now.” This was a lie. Naomi really was the mellowest of my kids, but I had battled the front lines with the first two. There was no need to admit what an easy baby Naomi was.
“Well, we would love the company,” Ruth said. She looked like she meant it. She looked lonely. Naomi stirred a little. It probably wouldn’t hurt to be somewhere where I could easily feed her if she woke up. Besides, we had a parking spot right in front of her apartment. It was almost too good to give up.
“Are you sure? We really don’t want to disturb you.”
“Honestly,” Ruth said. “All I’m going to do is sit here wondering what I’ve done with my life if you don’t come in.”
I laughed. I had a brief glimpse of the type of woman Ruth had been before she became a mom. What she said struck me. I had been wondering what I was doing with my life for a while now.
“Ok, come on, Sage, let’s go in for a visit.”
Sage hesitated a moment and peered around the door. I thought he was going to give me trouble. He looked up at Ruth and she smiled at him. He contemplated it all for a moment and then went in.
I shrugged and followed.
“Can I get you some tea or coffee or maybe, I don’t know, a glass of wine. Do you do that? I mean I guess you are supposed to pump and dump.”
“My milk is precious,” I said. “I haven’t dumped an ounce in my life. And yes, I do wine. I would love a very small glass. I am driving. I’ll have some water, too, but I can get it.”
“Really, it’s no trouble,” Ruth said. She walked swiftly to the kitchen. I thought about insisting, but part of me knew she was probably embarrassed that Claudia and I saw her at such a rough time. It was a point of pride that she was the hostess in her house.
“Pretty nice to be able to drink during the day,” she said, when we were settled with our glasses of wine. “I am wondering when that responsibility thing really kicks in.”
“Well, believe me, it’s overrated,” I said. “But once you get it, there’s no going back.”
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br /> “Awesome,” Ruth said and then she laughed a little too loud as if it had been a while since she heard her own voice. She glanced at Abe to see if she woke him. He stayed asleep. “I’m really playing with fire, aren’t I?”
“You’re living on the edge,” I confirmed.
When she finished her wine and poured herself a little more. She looked over at me to see if I was judging her. I wasn’t.
“So you co-sleep,” Ruth asked out of the blue. It seemed like something she had been thinking about. I expected to have to explain my choice to her or deal with the silent judgment. But instead she said, “How is that?”
“It’s nice, in some ways,” I said. David had been more of a proponent of that in the beginning and I had to be sold. He was way more into the “attachment parenting” thing. I think the co-sleeping was his way of feeling closer because I was the primary caregiver and I had the boobs. “I mean, the kids like it so much and it’s easier to do night feedings, but of course sometimes you wish you had your space. Sometimes I would give anything to lie on my stomach and stretch my arms and legs out like a snow angel.”
I hadn’t said that aloud ever. I hadn’t even realized I felt that way. I set my wine down and took some sips of water.
“Yes, I was so looking forward to being able to sleep on my stomach when Abe was born, but now that he’s here, when I try to sleep on my stomach it feels like a rubber tire and I can’t take the pressure on my boobs. I don’t know if I could ever have him in my bed. As it is, with him in my room, I jump at every little noise. And even though I rarely nurse him in the bed, when I do get into a deep sleep I often wake up thinking that I’m still holding him, that I’ve suffocated him or something.” She looked at me, like she had revealed too much. The wine was hitting her quick.
“A lot of people feel that way. A lot of women worry about that.”
“Do they?” she asked. She picked up her wineglass and looked through the wine at me. “I guess I just wish I knew more people around to tell me that stuff, to tell me, you know, that I’m not going completely crazy. None of my friends have kids, I can’t ask my mother-in-law. I ask my mom stuff, but she’s in Boston. I don’t know . . . I mean how did anybody ever learn stuff? How could people be moms? Some of it is instinct, right, but for some of it seems you need experience . . . and advice. How did they know?”