The Birth of a Grown-up

“Sweet Mother!” I screamed, as the fiery blaze blossomed through my sinuses. I thought this nasal spray was supposed to help my sinus infection not sear the flesh away from my nasal passages like the skin on a fire roasted bell pepper. And how, exactly was I supposed to rinse this stuff out now that it was clear that this medication was a liquid blow torch? With no clear plan I began jumping around my kitchen, flapping my hands and breathing in hysterical little gasps. In my fat sweats and bed head, I was glad that my only audience for this spectacle was my three month old daughter, Olivia. I looked toward the car carrier. Mercifully, she was still asleep. I took the rest of my prescribed medications and began to set myself up for a well deserved sick day. Every pillow must be precisely positioned to even attempt sleep in this condition.

While I was clearly dining from the viral buffet now, I hadn’t really been down with anything since my daughter was born. The previous three months had been filled with photo ops and standing over the crib waiting for her to wake up so that I could enjoy her adorable giggle and perfectly dimpled smile. Olivia was a joy, a shiny new toy to play with and dress up and pose next to. In the first weeks when my mother was with me, basking in the glow of a first grandchild, she would race me to closet so that she could pick out Olivia’s dress for the day. I don’t think she wore the same outfit twice that first year.  I’m sure there were some inconveniences associated with having an infant, but I don’t remember a single one until that day. The misery of that wretched summer flu was letting up just enough to drift off to sleep when I heard her. At first it was just a little jabbering and I prayed that she would go back to sleep, but the squawking continued, ramping up to whimpering before finally escalating into full blown howling. “You’re kidding me.” I sighed into the universe. In denial, I tried to block out the sound. The wailing continued. “I’m sick, for Pete’s sake!” I hollered into the other room. At that, Olivia transitioned into the staccato scream-gasp, scream-gasp that babies do when they have really lost their patience with you. Then before I could put some sort of rational spin on the situation I was bawling too. We were all alone in the house, just the two of us, crying our eyes out in separate rooms. If you are as prone to self pity as I am, you may have experienced the torture that sobbing while sick with a head cold produces. Mucus seems to force itself out of every orifice on the face while pressure continues to build threatening to shoot your eyeballs right out of your head. I was completely absorbed in the puddle that was me when I suddenly noticed that Olivia had stopped crying. Silence. Is she all right? I flung all the covers off and raced in to see what had happened. I knelt down and stared into her quiet face. It was red and streaked with tears. Her breathing was punctuated with a pitiful little catch, though she wasn’t crying. She seemed OK, and perhaps a little surprised. I glanced at the clock. It had been easily six hours since I nursed her and she was clearly starving.

I picked her up gently and carried her over to the rocking chair; my fantasy of sleep truly lost now, and began to nurse her. As I did, a completely terrifying reality crept over me. I will never have another sick day. I am sick. I should be tucked into bed. When I was a child, a sick day would have meant soup and OJ and daytime games shows like Press Your Luck. From the couch I’d call in unison with the contestants, “No Whammies! No Whammies…. Stop!” I’d have the house to myself and sneak Oreos as I lounged in my pajamas all day. Even once I joined the work force I was entitled to a sick day now and again. I’d rest in guiltless peace, suffering, sure, but somehow treasuring the day of silence that was ordinarily so hard to come by. A sick day, no matter what it cost in discomfort, was the gem amidst the rocky demands of life and I wanted mine. A suffocating fear blanketed my mind as I tried to comprehend a world in which a decent, hard working woman such as myself couldn’t convalesce in peace. I would have to drag my mucus encrust form out of bed in the night to nurse her and slog through diapers and spit up no matter how awful I felt or how high my fever climbed. What kind of world was this?!

The outrage must have cooled at some point because sleep did finally overtake me in the quiet house.  When I opened my eyes it was dark outside and Olivia and I were still in the rocking chair. My head was still a solid block of cement-like snot and body aches were settling in exacerbated by sleeping in a chair, but something had changed. There was a surprising absence of the despair, rage and cruel sense of injustice I had felt only a few hours before. I didn’t resent Olivia for having needs while I was sick. Her smooth, round face was peaceful in the crook of my arm and her lips were pulled into a little pucker as she mock-nursed in her sleep. The misery of my illness was still with me, yet I knew that I would do what ever it took to parent this precious creature. I would drag my naked, sagging body over broken glass for her. I would swim through shark infested waters slathered in beef fat to get to her. I would give up every human comfort and dignity, even a sick day, if that’s what she needed from me. And I did. Over the next ten days I tended her every need while battling my first post baby flu. I was a grown-up; someone who could forgo some immediate relief for a higher, worthy cause. There have been innumerable sacrifices associated with parenting, but they have all run together into a single memory I’ve labeled “Completely Worth It.” My heart changed from an organ that beat only for my benefit to one that hurt and loved and rejoiced for my children. Not for duty, or the maternal badge of martyrdom, or the multigenerational guilt every women is taught, but because I loved them in this utterly pure way which brings the world into a crystalline focus. That small change inside me affected the way I treated everyone from strangers to my own mother. Everyone is someone’s baby, and as a grown-up I knew that I would never be the same for that knowledge.

 

Reviews

[Jamie Raintree]

I LOVE your voice! The start of this piece is hysterical and drew me in right away. You writing is so clear and focused. Every mother experiences this and I think we all have a panic attack the first time we realize we have 18 more years of it. But you're so right. Every painful or difficult or heartbreaking moment is worth even those small joys. Thank you so much for sharing this!

[BoSweets]

I like the way this story flows. very good writer Peace BoSweets