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Warrior Girls
It is early morning and she is a twisting, crying, squirming alarm in my ear. My
old Mariners t-shirt is soaked on the left side and the cold in the room reminds me of why
I hate mornings. Ella is six days old. Just a searching, frustrated mouth with a pink,
fidgety body that looks like it is fighting something. It is all too much for her to be in this
world, as it is for me, and her little cries are bringing sadness into me quicker than I can
deal with today.
I am a mess. Is there a repair shop that accepts new moms’ hearts? I will be there
in an hour, if so, although I think this may be a total loss sir! I look at my thirty beautiful
things lined up like soldiers around my jewelry box and starting their trek over Goodnight
Moon. I imagine them each having atomic energy, ready to shatter everything but if
respected and handled right, capable of keeping everything peaceful and intact, too. Then
I look at my delicate little daughter sucking milk like it is the end of the world, with her
eyes closed, and I almost wish she was an ugly child, if any child can be ugly. I can not
allow myself to look at my beautiful daughter and think all these thoughts together: She
is beautiful. She is mine. I love her. The first part is true. The second part may change.
And the third part breaks my heart without the second. So I just think she is beautiful and
close my eyes. I want to talk to her and ask, “Do you know that we may not be together
for much longer? What will you do? What will happen with you? Do you even know
anything at all?”
She brings pain to my heart because she really does knows. Babies know
everything. That is why she holds on so tightly. But I can not allow myself to think this
for more than two- point-five seconds. So I get up to make some coffee. I put on the bath
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robe over the soaked t-shirt because I can not find the energy to take it off, find my fuzzy
slippers, and making sure I contain it all, I step out of the room. My heart is heavy and
the room is cold. I wish I were a potato bug –a Rolly-Polly as my son would say- so I can
roll into a ball and get swallowed up by the warm earth. Has anyone ever seen a potato
bug get swallowed up by the warm earth? Does a true warrior ever leave one of their own
behind? I am sure it has happened because in this moment, all sorts of absurdities are
possible.
I walk down the stairs, go to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee, listening for
Ella’s cry when she realizes that I am not in bed with her and on both sides of her there
are pillows meant to trick her. Thankfully, she is sleeping peacefully for now. As the
coffee maker starts to crackle and make its familiar and wonderfully comforting sounds
of starting to make my delicious liquid, I feel for the carton of cigarettes in the bath robe
pocket and check to see that I have my lighter in the other.
I go outside and light up. After inhaling, hope and organization are restored to my
brain. But then a wave of sadness washes over all that so I have to take another puff to regain my balance. The cold January air feels good on my scarred face. Last night I picked
at it for hours, while thinking about things over and over again. I was exhausted and it
hurt and now I felt guilty for damaging my complexion to such an extent.
You messed up royally, I tell myself. And now we are all stuck up a creek without
a paddle, as the saying goes. Some say that they understand my pain and can not imagine
how they could survive it if they were in my shoes. Well, I don’t know either. I guess we
are all mammals. We survive atrocities quite well because we come from a long line of
strong ones that survived even greater atrocities before us.
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I take another drag of the cigarette and my heart is temporarily strengthened. I
know it is really not, but I think it is, so it is. When I am done, I put the cigarette out and
go inside. Surely enough, Ella has realized that I am not next to her and is screeching in
the bedroom. I hurry up and without waiting for the pot to finish brewing all the coffee
take the pot and pour myself a generous cup, leaving some space for my holiday
peppermint flavored creamer. The taste always puts festivity into my heart, even at the
most horrible times, as though all the happy Christmases of the past get activated in my
heart and the memories decide to start rolling again. I am surprised to find myself
smiling.
I go to the room and making sure that I get on my right side this time, stick my
super-hard and leaking boob into her mouth and she starts sucking hungrily. I hate the
early days of nursing babies. Really, does it have to be so difficult? After she has been
eating for about ten minutes and deep in her sleep, I think, just sucking reflexively, I
attempt to extricate myself from her. Maybe I still have some time. As I start to get up,
her eyes pop open. She stares at me for a good few seconds, with what I believe is
admonishment and great disappointment, and then, with a sigh, falls right back into her
sleep. Does she know? I think she does. Babies know everything. She is disappointed
with my plan and now I feel guilty.
Yes, this is what it feels like to be losing my mind, I think. Contrary to how
popular movie scenes show human drama, such moments produce no tears for me. But I
love clichés so I have been trying to cry for over a year just to make my sad situations
more movie-like and thus more significant and glamorous. I would not know how to do it
even if I started making the sounds and scrunching up my face. Nothing happens.
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When your whole world is falling apart, all you need is a really warm blanket and
an hour of silence. You can sit and think of nothing at all, like a robot on off, I will
someday tell my daughter. Or you can think of everything. Mostly, dear daughter, you
may want to think about the past. You will remember that you were naïve and wish you
would have known and hate yourself for not knowing. You will think about what you
could have done differently. You will want to wake up from the nightmare, dear
daughter, but you will realize that this is real life; nothing like the fairy tales we used to
read. You are awake and this is no nightmare, girl. You will feel yourself shatter. You
will wish for sleep. You may fall into a deep sleep, like a blessing. Morning will come; it
always comes for lucky girls like us with exciting lives. Cheer up, boo! The icy hands of
sorrow will shake you awake. You will ask, “Sleep, why have you forsaken me like
this?” You will search for sleep like for a lost child. If you had chains, you would pull
that sleep right back to you!
Some people will harbor poison in their selves. You can have the most beautiful
heart, dear daughter, and it will get touched by the badness of the world. I’m just saying.
In moments like these, you will come to realize that there is no magic. Nothing will save
you or make the pain go away. You are just a strong girl, that’s why you are still
breathing. Keep breathing.
In moments like these, all you will need is a warm blanket to wrap around
yourself as tightly as you can, and an hour of silence. You will need no pen and no paper,
child, because we are not like that. You are a strong girl- look at me -my daughter. Your
own dear voice will blow them away when it finally comes to you. You need to wait for
that day because only then will you win the war. I will not bore you with how my love for
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you did anything special or had any effect on my choice of how things unfolded. I just
needed a tightly wrapped blanket and an hour of silence so that I could remember what I
already knew- that I am a fierce warrior in this fight and fierce warriors know better, dear
daughter.