|
|
 |
|
The
views expressed
on this page are soley those of the author and do not
necessarily
represent the views of County News Online
|
 |
Broke Wife, Big City
You think
you’re miserable now? Just wait…
By Aprill Brandon
Remember when I was pregnant?
Of course you do. Everyone within a thousand mile radius of formerly
pregnant me does. It’s hard to forget a real-life Stay Puft Marshmallow
Woman wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting city and terrorizing the
innocent town folk while loudly complaining about her swollen
ankles.
Fortunately for me, those miserable 10-months (yeah, 10 months…since
SOMEONE, I’m not naming names or anything, refused to exit my uterus in
a timely manner and became a tiny squatter in my lady parts), are now
all just a faded blur of eating cheeseburgers in bed while sobbing.
That’s one of the major perks about having kids. Your brain is so busy
forming new neural pathways, like which is the best way to extract a
raisin out of a tiny nostril, that it pushes all the bad memories of
how you got said kid right out of your brain.
This is how siblings are created.
That said, however, there is one thing I can never forget no matter how
many memories are abolished by creative problem-solving the best way to
pull out a squirming baby stuck under the coffee table. And that is all
the horrible parenting tales I heard from other people.
I can’t tell you how many times I heard:
“You think you’re miserable now? Just wait until he’s born and you
never get to sleep again.”
“Well, if you think newborns are bad, just wait until he starts
crawling.”
“The worst part is when they turn two. That’s when they turn into Satan
on crack.”
“You’ll want to kill yourself when they hit puberty.”
“Basically, children ruin your life. Oh, but, I mean, it’s worth it.”
Almost every day I was pregnant I was bombarded by these remarks. It
got to the point that I started having panic attacks that the next 18
years of my life would be sheer hell. Which, of course, when I told
other parents this, they responded with, “Eighteen years? Pffffft.
Parenting only gets worse once they become adults. Your life is ruined
until you die. And even then, as a ghost, your kids will ruin your
afterlife.”
I never understood this cruel need to inform pregnant women of every
bad thing that had ever happened ever in the history of parenting.
That is, until my own little swamp demon was finally forcefully evicted
from my uterus, and I found myself telling other pregnant first-timers
all the worst things that had happened since he took his first breath.
Which is ridiculous because I love being a mom. I can honestly say this
is the happiest I’ve ever been. And yet, there I heard myself, cracking
jokes about how breastfeeding feels like taking a honey badger with a
cheese grater for a mouth to your bosom every three hours (I mean, it’s
true, that’s exactly what it feels like, but why did I feel I had to
share that with an already terrified and miserable woman?).
So, why don’t parents talk about the joys of parenting? Why do we
choose only to share the worst aspects of family life?
For a long time, I couldn’t figure this out. But then, I started trying
to write about it, trying to write about all the good things that come
with bringing a life into this world.
And to my surprise, I found I couldn’t. I, a professional wordsmith,
couldn’t find the words.
See, I can easily describe to you the sights, sounds and smell
(especially the smell) of every diaper blowout my baby has had. And
yet, the first time I sang my crying baby to sleep, describing that is
damn near impossible.
Oh sure, I can describe to you the circumstances, the facts of the
matter. He was 2-months-old. He’d been crying for an hour. Nothing I
did could get him to stop. Not bouncy-bounce time. Not the flying
Superman baby game. Not even my last resort option of “Hey, look, a
boob! Please eat again and shut up!”
Worst of all, Daddy wouldn’t be home for another hour.
Out of sheer desperation and because it worked in every single movie
ever that has a baby in it, I started singing to him. “Close To You” by
The Carpenters, to be exact. Not because I had a particular fondness
for that song but because it was the only song I knew all the words to
that did not include curse words.
Over and over I sang that song, pacing back and forth the length of our
house. He screamed. I sang. He screamed louder. That loud, piercing
scream only young babies can do that stab you directly in the brain.
And then it happened. Slowly, at first, almost imperceptibly. The
pauses between cries grew ever so slightly. The volume lowered at a
snail’s pace.
And on I sang.
Eventually, I dared to look down at him, mid-chorus, his head resting
on my shoulder. Eyes wide open, just staring at me singing. The cries
had stopped. Just the occasional sniffling.
So I kept singing. And he kept staring. And I kept staring. Two more
trips through “Close To You.” Until his lids got heavy. And then
heavier. And finally, mid-“that is why all the girls in town,” he fell
asleep.
And yet, I kept singing. One more time, the whole song through. Because
I wanted to remember what this felt like. And that’s where my
descriptive powers come to an end. Because I can’t tell you what it
felt like. Not really. I love words. I’ve built my entire life around
words. And yet none of them, alone or clustered together in a sentence,
can accurately portray the love I felt in that moment. The
meaningfulness I felt. And the power. The sheer power I felt. My voice
had comforted another human being. And not just any human being. The
one I loved most in the world.
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having a superpower.
But all of those are just words. It still doesn’t describe the bigness
of that moment.
The best I can do is just matter-of-factly tell you that as I finally
got to sit down with my peacefully sleeping baby resting in my arms, I
went to rub my tired eyes and realized I was crying.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
|
|
|
|
