Five years later
From the depths of the pandemic to the depths of motherhood
Hello, dear humans,
It’s Phoebe’s first day at daycare, and I am conflicted to report that I am less of a blubbering mess than expected.
Despite crying several times last week at the mere thought of leaving her, I did not cry at drop-off this morning, and neither did she. Part of me wishes I had cried, or that she did, or that I were more anxious about not seeing her for seven hours, which is the longest we will have been apart, except for the first night of her life, when I was in the ICU. Another part is hugely relieved: Not only can I enjoy the use of both my hands until 4pm today, but I fully trust the hands that are caring for her until then. In fact, the woman caring for her is, by most metrics, far more qualified to care for Phoebe than I am: While I have been a mother of one child for less than six months, she has been a mother of two children for over twenty years. While she may not know Phoebe as well as I do yet, she has worked in daycare since 2010, and has known and cared for hundreds more children than I have. If I’m being honest, there is a part of me that is nervous Phoebe will return home and wonder why I am not as good at this job as Miss H. I’m trying to remember that this is the best possible scenario.
In the meantime, here I am, back at my neighborhood coffee shop, trying to focus on writing. It’s hard when there are ten thousand other things I feel like I should be catching up on, but I’m doing my best to remember: Creativity is nourishing. And I need nourishment now, more than ever.
The piece I send to you today is a revision of a piece I sent nearly one year ago, and a piece I started writing back in 2020. Part 1 speaks from the depths of the pandemic, and part 2, from the depths of motherhood. I hope you enjoy it.
And before I go: for anyone who lives in Portland, there are two sessions left in my Yoga for Everyday Life philosophy series. It runs Saturday 5/10 and Saturday 5/17, 2:30-4pm, at The People’s Yoga SE. You don’t need to have any yoga experience, prior knowledge, or to have attended any previous sessions to drop in. I’d love to have you!
Alright, y’all. Take good care, and remember to nourish yourself, however and whenever you can.
Love,
Abby
How to Optimize Your Sadness and Cry Whenever You Want
Part 1: 2020
Sit on the toilet, face in hands, pants at your ankles. Or, if that’s not accessible to you, at least pull your car over to the side of the road.
Put on music. Be sure to choose a song that has some kind of instrument that reminds you of your heartbeat, something you can really feel in your chest.
Think about how alone you are, right now. How, if you were to wail, no one would hear you, how, if you were to swear, no one would scold you, and how utterly freeing that is! Freeing, that is, until you realize that all you want is for someone to be there and hold you, without judgment, while you wail and swear and weep.
Watch the documentary about the last season of Schitt’s Creek, and think about everything beautiful in your life that has come to an end. Let yourself feel the both/and: Yes, you know the show had to end, and at least it ended on its own terms, not to mention, it ended perfectly, but you still really didn’t want it to because there was just so much life in it yet, plus, it was one of the only things that could reliably bring you joy when you needed it most! This really sucks for you. And, it is also so beautiful.
Look at your dog while she’s sleeping. Notice how small her snout is, how sweet her sighs, and how her velvet belly rises and falls with each breath. Reach out and hold her little paw in your big, human hand, and marvel at how you can love a little being so much. Now, imagine that she’s really old and frail and has some incurable disease and that she’s going to die soon. She’s not old yet, but in a few years, she will be, and you know how fast time seems to go these days.
Find a baby. Not yours, of course, because you don’t have one and, the way things are going lately, probably never will, but maybe it’s a friend’s, or possibly one you find at a coffee shop. Now really look at her – those hands! The tiny finger nails, the wrinkled fingers, the dimpled knuckles, and those FEET! Take the time to squeeze her little feet, touch her hair, gently, and then lovingly smell the top of her head. Then, imagine that in a few years, one of this baby’s parents will die tragically. She will still be a kid, and she will be sad and everyone around her will be sad for her, until later in life, when any new friends she makes won’t have any idea about her father’s premature death, and the kid, who is now a woman, will have to explain that yes, it was almost 20 years ago now, but yes, she still misses him every day, and no, she can’t explain how it feels to lose a parent, but she wishes she could, because right now, she wants nothing more than to be understood, or at least, fucking held.
Really feel the weight of your head in your hands.
Imagine that your one living parent was just diagnosed with terminal cancer. They haven’t been, but the way things have been going, it seems like everyone in your family will get cancer sooner or later, so just go with it. Now, imagine that you’ll have to care for her for the next three or four or maybe twelve years, during which time she will decline, slowly. You will have to feed her, perform CPR when she chokes on her oatmeal, bathe her, and probably change her diapers. She will be your infant baby that you so desperately wanted but never had. Except instead of an actual infant who would have grown up to be strong and tall and beautiful and interesting, she is an old prune who was once strong and tall and beautiful and interesting and is now, instead, going backwards. Instead of a tiny little raisin-baby, you are now in charge of a 120-lb once-beautiful prune – a prune like the ones you’ll feed her to help her poop. The same poop, incidentally, that you’ll have to clean up as you simultaneously celebrate the fact that she finally pooped! and also cry because this is your mom we’re talking about, and remember when she was the one who cleaned up your poop and isn’t that how it should be?!
With your head still in your hands, or your car still pulled to the side of the road, think about the fact that, not only are you now too old to sell your eggs, but you are almost too old to even freeze your eggs - really think about that! In another year and a half, they won’t even let you take out your own body part, set it aside and say, “Hey, I might want this later, so please keep it safe!” They’ll be like, “Unfortunately, we can’t do that for you, but why don’t you try natural conception? You probably have a couple more years left for that, though of course the risk of birth defects is much higher now, but if you really want a baby…”
Contemplate having a baby born with one arm, or no arms, or maybe even no legs! Think about how fiercely you would love that baby, and how quickly you would beat the shit out of anyone who dared make fun of her, or offer you their sympathies, or tell you that “You are so brave! Such an inspiration!” No, you would not be an inspiration for loving your own fucking child because that is just what a mother does! Take a moment to feel as your heart beats just a little bit faster, and a little bit shakier.
Watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. It’s been so long since you’ve seen it!
Spend some time journaling with the word “unfair.”
Find another baby. Look at her: the hands, the feet - yes, you’ve seen baby hands and feet before but they get you every time! Notice how perfect she is, how healthy, how full of promise. She is so beautiful, and smells like a pancake, somehow. Now, imagine that in a few years, just as she starts to enter puberty, she will develop a condition where her spine takes on the shape of a question mark and no one will know why. Everyone will have theories and she will try many treatments, but she will eventually be sliced open, her body, reconfigured. The worst part is that she will never be able to relax again, not really, because sitting will not be comfortable, so she will spend her whole life moving, like a shark, or an electron. She will learn to endure it and she will be called “strong” and even “inspiring!” but the sadness will remain – the kind of sadness that she will feel guilty talking about because, as she has learned, It could be so much worse! So she will spend much of her life repressing, deferring to those with more pain, and she will cry only in secret, which is the saddest way to cry. See again how perfect this baby is, how oblivious to her future. Kiss her tiny, translucent eyelids and remember that one day, she will be told that her body is just one big question mark.
As you watch The Muppet Christmas Carol, take note of every time you hear Kermit speak. Remind yourself that this was the first movie they made after Jim Henson died, and that whoever is voicing Kermit is trying their best, and my god, what a job! Remind yourself that Jim Henson was 53 when he died, three years younger than your dad was, and three years older than your sister is now.
Watch a three-legged dog hop around the dog park, so happy.
Take a yoga class. While everyone else is in savasana, stare at the ceiling and ask yourself why you cannot be like everyone else in the room and just FUCKING RELAX ALREADY. This may not make you cry in the moment, but it will really get the wheels churning. Then, when class is over and you’re at New Seasons just trying to decide on a snack, it will occur to you that of course you cannot relax because you have been living with an immobilized spine for the last 20 years, and you actually, literally cannot remember what it feels like to slouch, or to relax your body at all. On top of this, you are alone and have no one to hold you. This is when the tears will come, and it will be good because what better time to try and hold in your tears than while you’re looking at kale salads to-go?! A few tears will leak out, and you’ll decide to go to the bathroom, only to realize that by the time you get there, you don’t have to cry anymore. You go back to the kale salads to try again, just to feel something, but you realize the moment is gone. So you just get the bulgar wheat salad instead because it has cranberries, which remind you of your dad for some reason. You check out, and then on your way home is when that song comes on that always makes you cry, and now is when the floodgates really open up. You pull over, because you cannot see, and you feel your chest collapse in on itself. As it does, you feel your knees curl toward your chest, like that yoga pose, you think it’s called “knees-to-chest,” or maybe “child’s pose,” or possibly “happy baby” - wouldn’t that be ironic!
Listen as it starts to rain.
Don’t go to the grocery store for several weeks. Get your cupboards down to as bare as they’ve ever been, and then open and close each cupboard several times. Go to the fridge and open and close it several times, pausing in between, for effect. Look around your apartment. Really see the piles of mail, the camping gear that you haven’t used, that you refuse to use until you have someone to go with, and not just your two married friends who always invite you along, and you know they mean it because they love you and you love them, but you always decline because seeing happy couples reminds you of how alone you are. Plus, how will you ever meet the man of your dreams if you’re always out camping in the sticks with your married friends?! Once you’ve taken stock of the empty cupboards, the piles of paper, and the camping gear you’ve been trying to ignore, look again in the fridge. Select the Costco-size jar of olives that your sister gave you for your birthday and try to twist off the lid. When you can’t, notice how enraged you immediately become, then how quickly that rage dissipates as tears start to flow.
Rewatch The Muppet Christmas Carol.
Observe your dog again as she sleeps next to you, her tiny snout resting lovingly on your thigh. Let yourself feel her big breaths underneath your hands. Remember: One day, she will die.
Spend some time meditating on the word “alone.”
Go to the grocery store, finally. Make sure to bring only two of your reusable bags, even though it would be so easy to bring more. When you contemplate bringing a third, tell yourself that you really shouldn’t because you don’t want to over-shop, because how much food can one person possibly eat before it goes bad and you don’t want a repeat of the grape tomato situation! Now, be sure to over-shop. Get as many heavy things as possible. Include one of those giant metal tanks of olive oil, and also the big-boy laundry detergent. Make sure you purchase enough that you’ll need at least one grocery-store-issued paper bag for the spill-over, because the two reusable bags were obviously not enough, and you should know this by now! When you get home, park at least one full block away, because that is the only parking available and your dumb apartment building doesn’t have a garage anyway – not that you’d pay for it if it did, but you’d at least like to have the option! Consider asking a stranger for help with your bags, then decide against it, because there aren’t any strangers in sight. Begin the march back to your building, and observe as the paper bag rips, releasing your bag of quinoa, which has also ripped, onto the muddy ground. Remind yourself that you splurged on the organic quinoa this time, and that this is not only a waste of good food, but also a waste of money. Continue looking at the pile of quinoa until you realize that no, it is not worth trying to pick it up carefully and just giving it a good rinse. Really see the mud pushing up between the tiny seeds, like plants, but in reverse. Remind yourself that this would be so much easier if you just had someone to help carry these fucking bags.
Re-watch the last episode of The Good Place. Wait for the part when that beautiful violin song plays, the part where Chidi has made his decision and there’s nothing Eleanor can do to stop him, and, what’s more, she knows she should not try. Remind yourself that this is what true love is: letting someone die even when you know you must go on living.
Brew yourself a pot of peppermint tea. Make sure it’s a whole pot even though you should know by now that you’ll only drink a half-mug, tops, and probably end up throwing out the rest when it gets cold and bitter. Wait for it to steep as you gaze at the lone candle on your kitchen table – the candle you lit for yourself, for self-care. Put your hand to your chest and feel your heart and lungs, doing their best. Remind yourself how quickly time passes.
Think back to your last breakup, which was almost five years ago now. Take a moment to realize that if you’d decided to just go to the sperm bank immediately after the breakup, you might have a kid who was almost four by now. It would have been difficult to be a single mother, of course, but at least you wouldn’t be wondering if you would ever have a child, or if you should just waste another few years to see if you’ll meet someone to have kids with “the natural way,” and also a partner to hold you.
Lay belly-down on your yoga bolster. When your tiny dog comes over to stand on your back and lick your cheeks, flip over to your back so that you can hug her with both arms while she enjoys licking not only your cheeks, but also your nose and your eyes, which by now are quite salty, which is exactly how she likes it! Really feel the wet of her tongue, and the frantic, desperate love behind it, as if she is saying, “MOM IT’S OKAY I’M HERE FOR YOU!” Remember that at least she will never leave you, until she dies, which she will, in about twelve years, tops.
Think about your mom. Envision her face, more wrinkled than you want to admit, and her eyes, so loving. Envision her hands, strong from years of playing piano. Imagine holding her hands for the last time as she dies, and remind yourself that this would be the best case scenario, because it would be so much worse to not be there while she dies, and even worse if you died before her – the woman has already lost her father, her mother, her husband, and her brother! Yes, this would be the best case scenario, and it is also, incidentally, the saddest.
Close your eyes and imagine a beach. It could be any beach, but the first thing that comes to mind is the cliff in Manzanita where you threw your friend’s ashes into the sea. It was more coast than beach, technically, and since you really want to do this right, you keep your eyes closed a moment longer, just to see if you can conjure up something more beach-like. The second thing that comes to mind is the ocean in Yelapa, Mexico. Again, not a beach, but you’re tired of trying so hard, so you decide to just go with it. Of course, you realize, you thought of this spot because that’s where you threw your father’s ashes into the sea from a boat, after you saw a whale. It probably would have made more sense, you think, to release his ashes from somewhere you had gone together, but you didn’t, and actually, now that you think of it, maybe this was the perfect spot! There you were, living your best life, surrounded by friends and people who loved you, and all of a sudden, up pops this whale and her baby! Who are you kidding, your dad would have loved this place! Now, stay with the whales a bit longer. Really take in the image of the strong, proud mama: her arched back, the blue-grey of her hide, that giant fucking blow-hole! There she is, out and about, just trying to show her baby the world. Feel the mist on your face as the boat rocks and heaves. Remember how the tour-guide told you, “Mama is teaching how to swim!” and how this fact alone made you want to weep! Picture the baby again. Really look at her: her slick, gnarled skin, her white underbelly, those little flippers, the tail that she flops and slaps the water with when she’s excited. If that’s not cute enough, look now as she copies her mommy and jumps up and spins! You had no idea baby whales could do that! Yes, this is exactly the right time, you think, and just as the baby lands, you reach into your bag to pull out the film canister that your sister has packed your father in. It has to happen fast, you think, because the timing is just right, so you release the top and fling your father over the side of the boat. Most of him makes it into the water, you assume, but then you notice that your one friend who saw you do it clutches her chest and gasps. You see her point to the girl behind you, the only one who got seasick, and together you observe that pieces of your father have settled onto her sunburnt shoulders as she sways, unwittingly, with her head between her legs. This is hilarious, you think, as you start to weep, and you are so glad that your friend saw it, too – all of it: the mama whale, the baby learning, the dust of your father, and the last prank your father will ever play.
Part 2: 2025
Shut the door behind you as you sit on the toilet, again. Consider that this is now the one place in your home where, theoretically, no one will disturb you. Feel the weight of your head in your hands and listen as your baby screams from her crib, resisting her nap for the third time today. As her screams become louder, feel your boobs start to prickle and leak. Ask yourself if you are doing the right thing, or if maybe you are causing irreparable damage that she will have to work out in therapy, twenty or thirty years from now. Remind yourself that you actually have no idea what you’re doing.
Look now at your hands. Notice how similar they are to your mother’s – your mother who, despite your best efforts, decided that she won’t be moving across the country after all, even though that’s where both her daughters and her only granddaughter now live. Feel the both/and: yes, you’re proud of your mother for having her own life, especially after so many years of setting her own needs aside, and you would really like it if her life still revolved around you.
As your baby’s screaming reaches its peak, try putting in a pair of earplugs and observe as they fall out of your tiny ears. At the same time this frustrates you, notice how it also makes you miss your father who, despite his large stature, also had dainty ears. Remember that your child, still screaming from her crib, will never know this grandfather. What’s worse, you think, is that she won’t even know how sad this is until she is grown and has her own children, which of course, she may never do.
Now, remember your grandmother, your father’s mother. Technically, you knew her, but the only memories you have are of when you were eight and she lived with you because she had dementia. Picture her wrinkled face as she stared at you, cheeks hollow, mouth partly open, body stiff, and remember, shamefully, how creepy you thought she was. Take a moment to consider that actually, you didn’t know her, either, and you didn’t realize how sad this was until you had a child of your own, and until you realized that your own mother is almost the age that your grandmother started losing her mind.
Go in and pick up your baby, finally. She is still crying, and it hurts your ears because the earplugs didn’t stay in after all. Notice how shitty you feel that you are more annoyed about your ears than you are empathetic toward your screaming child. Remind yourself that this is temporary, and that before you know it, your child will want nothing to do with you, and maybe even move across the country.
Hold your baby close to your heart. Feel her little cheek against yours, hot and streaked with tears, and wonder whether you did the right thing. Remind yourself again that you have no idea what you’re doing, and that this really sucks, because this is your kid’s life we’re talking about, not some science experiment for school. The stakes are so high!
As you hold your baby, sway gently from side to side and close your eyes. Notice how, as she stops crying, your own eyes become wet. As her breathing slows, wrap your arms even more tightly around her and feel her little hands grip your shirt, your hair, your neck. Decide that you will never again leave her to cry, then remember that actually, you probably will because you will be so tired and overwhelmed that you won’t know what else to do. Recall the books you read: the ones that assured you that your baby definitely won’t be traumatized by this; then recall the other books you read: the ones that said she definitely will! Ask yourself what your intuition says, then realize that you are so tired and strung out and confused that you actually don’t know how to do that anymore. Hold your baby tighter.
Notice that she is sleeping now, her head resting on your shoulder, breath strong and heavy. As you feel her little heartbeat against your own, take a moment to realize that she has no concept of time beyond right now. This means that what you are doing in this moment is the most important thing. Think back to all the times in her short life that you were not fully present: scrolling through Instagram; just sending an email real quick; making a snack for yourself while she was crying and hungry; picking her up roughly in the middle of the night and cursing to yourself when you just wanted to sleep but she would not let you. Wonder if you have already ruined things.
Bring your baby outside. Feel the air on your skin, warmer than it should be at this time of year, and really take in the sky: orange and hazy from the trees that are burning in California, nearly 1,000 miles away. Remember that this sort of thing didn’t used to happen until summer, and that it is only April. Imagine now what it will be like when your child is grown, assuming the world doesn’t literally explode before then: hot when it should be cold, cold when it should be hot, everything burning and melting and flooding. Notice the smell of fire, almost pleasant, until you remember that this is not a bonfire with s’mores, but instead, people’s homes, not to mention, millions of trees.
Zoom out just a bit and consider the world that you brought this child into. Not just the climate, but this political shit show, the soaring rates of depression and anxiety, especially in children. Ask yourself if you really thought this through when you had your kid, or if maybe you were just being extraordinarily selfish. Consider how many people are suffering, how stretched the world’s resources are, how many people live in tents, just down the road from where you live. Remind yourself that you, with your car, your house, your phone, your growing family, are part of the problem.
Now, turn your attention back to the baby in your arms: her heartbeat, her breath, her tiny hands, still gripping your shirt even though she is asleep. Remember that this baby almost killed you. That your husband, who hadn’t planned on having kids until he met you, was almost a single dad. Yes, you survived, but just barely, and who knows what sort of trauma your child will have to sort through in therapy, not just from birth, but from all the mistakes you will inevitably make, not to mention, the mistakes you have already made. Ask yourself again if you have really thought this through.
Gently bring your baby down off your shoulder, but keep holding her close. Cradle her as you begin to sway side to side again, this time looking down at her face: her button nose, her tulip mouth, her eyelashes like paintbrushes, her hair that all the doctors said would fall out but didn’t. Ask yourself how anything, how anyone, could be so cute, so lovable, so perfect.
As you witness this baby, your baby, think again of your mother. Imagine yourself in her arms, 39 years ago. Imagine what it must have been like for her, her father also dead, her mother also living many states away and with no intention of moving. Imagine the state of the world around her, perhaps not so dire as it is now, but surely as dire as it had ever been. Ask yourself if she also asked herself if she had really thought things through.
Look back up at the sky. Consider how, if you didn’t know the forest was burning, the orange haze would simply be beautiful. Take a moment to wonder how many other things you have found simply beautiful, but were also tragic. Feel the both/and. Yes, the system you live in is in shambles, and yes, it is unfair that you are here, in the safety of your yard, your home, your family, while so many millions are suffering. Yes, the world as you know it is dying, and yes, it will soon be deader still. Yes, you are more exhausted than you’ve ever been, and yes, you are sometimes not sure how you’ll survive another year, let alone 18 or 26 or 61 or however long you’re supposed to live as a mother. And, here is this baby: perfect, healthy, and full of promise. Here is this baby, your baby, that you wished so hard for, this baby that almost killed you, but who also made you the most alive that you’ve ever been. Consider that maybe there is no right thing, and that perhaps this is as close as it gets for you.