i can do that
“You’re doing real good, Stacey. That’s it, just like that.”
You can get used to just about anything with time. Even the round face of a Southern nurse hovering between your splayed legs.
My husband squeezes my hand, dabs tentatively at my sweaty forehead.
“You’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
We lather, rinse, repeat these exchanges ad nauseum for forty minutes, the two of them assuring me I’m a rock star about to pop out all the babies, while I seem to make no visible progress.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I’m really in for it now. I have gone and grown a whole human inside my body, and there is no liberating this tiny person without significant trauma to my body. I don’t care if women have been doing this for eons. We are blazing a trail right through my vagina - right now, today! - and the only way out is through.
For half a second, I consider hopping off the table and making a run for it. I won’t get anywhere; I’m attached to too many things, and even if I could get my feet out of these stirrups before they stopped me, I’d probably just faceplant. But maybe they’d take pity on me and wheel me off for a C-section so I wouldn’t have to push anymore.
“I’m glad you’re all so confident,” I finally gasp, annoyed. “Because I’m not at all sure that this is something I can do.”
Marian’s head snaps up and she looks me dead in the eye.
“Every new mother walks into this room not knowing what she’s capable of,” she insists. “But you’ll see. And you’ll leave here with your baby in your arms, and know that you can do anything.”
And I want to believe her, but I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’ve got needles in my arms, goopy monitors on my belly, a blood pressure cuff around one bicep that inflates and cuts off my circulation whenever the hell it feels like it. My body is doing this crazy uncomfortable thing it’s never done before, and I’m crawling out of my skin, smothered half to death. I have an oxygen mask hanging from one ear. And the party isn’t over until I’m a mother.
She sees my expression, sees me, understands.
“Your body knows what to do. Let’s just take it one contraction at a time and get this little boy out.”
I nod, pulling off the oxygen mask.
“I can do that.”
* * * * *
It’s 3:00 AM, or it was the last time I looked. If my alarm is set for 5:30, then it’s probably 5:27. He’s rolling into me, pawing, smacking his lips. It would be freaking adorable if I weren’t so sick, if he weren’t so needy.
But as it happens, he’s hungry or teething or cold or just snuggly, and if I don’t nurse him, he’ll go nuclear in seconds.
I’ve been puking my brains out for the past 9 hours, and you can guess what else. My stomach is roiling. I’m in a cold sweat. All I want is a heating pad and a soft bed and dark and quiet and maybe some lukewarm water.
But he’s rolling into me, his busy feet burrowing into my aching torso, his sweet little lips smacking noisily as he roots around for a snack.
And it’s just too much. It’s too much to ask of someone in the throes of food poisoning, to balance on their side, to bear the kicks and punches, to be this-fucking-close to a squirming little person. Hell, just to stay there long enough to satisfy the baby, without sprinting for the bathroom again.
I’m trapped, trapped by the state of my body, trapped by the needs of my child. I can’t see how to take care of us both.
I seriously consider crying - fine, more than consider it - but the mothering instinct wins out, every time. I let him belly up to the bar and I try not to feel too sorry for myself.
He latches on, and I sigh, rubbing my forehead with my free hand. My husband watches me sympathetically, and reaches over to squeeze my shoulder.
“If he cries after this, I’ll walk with him,” he offers. “If you can just give him a few minutes on the boob, I’ll take over after that.”
I nod, wincing as a pair of tiny knees swing deep into my belly.
“I can do that.”
* * * * *
It’s 11:45 AM, and he’s been screaming for 90 minutes.
It’s horror. That’s the only way I can describe it. Hands down, the hardest adjustment I have faced as a mother is the visceral panic and pain I feel when my child is in distress.
It reduces me down to instinct, and almost to action, even though I know I can’t. We have rules for a reason, we have a process.
Someone out there has a doctorate in behavioral therapy - plenty of someones - and this is the thing that we do with a kid on the spectrum.
But none of those someones are sitting in my living room, writhing in their skin while my toddler shrieks and trembles and lashes out. They write the manual, but they don’t have to be there in the trenches, impervious to the heartrending cry of their own young.
They don’t have to be stone.
But I have to be stone, and I have to be strong, even though I’m new to all this, even though it goes against every instinct I have and I’m not sure I agree with it and the only thing I want in the world is to hold him so we can fight back the rage and the confusion and the terror together.
Even though I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work, either.
So I record the sound in the room, just a few seconds, as long as I can bear. And I send it to the therapist, asking Is this normal???
I don’t know if I want her to say yes, this is what I expected, stay strong or no, this is something else, intervene.
She doesn’t say either. She asks if he might have an ear infection.
And now I’m sitting here wondering if my child is screaming in physical pain while I bounce the baby on my lap and cheerily, chillingly ignore his cries.
Just stay the course, she tells me. And the second he calms down, praise him and reinforce the positive behavior.
Yeah, I finally text back. I can do that.
An hour later, he collapses in my arms, shuddering and and gasping. I cry into his hair and wonder what I’ve done, if it was right, if there’s another way, if I can do it again if I have to.
I don’t have the answers.
My brain is a twitching echo chamber of why him and why me and oh god i hate this.
* * * * *
I never knew how much pain it could cost you, to love someone so much. To take responsibility for their wellbeing, for their growth, for their happiness. To make the best decisions you could, and never know if you were right.
I talk to my mom about it sometimes, and my mother-in-law. They both tell me the same thing, again and again and again.
“All you can do is love ‘em.”
I can do that.
therealljidol week 19: i can do that
You can get used to just about anything with time. Even the round face of a Southern nurse hovering between your splayed legs.
My husband squeezes my hand, dabs tentatively at my sweaty forehead.
“You’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
We lather, rinse, repeat these exchanges ad nauseum for forty minutes, the two of them assuring me I’m a rock star about to pop out all the babies, while I seem to make no visible progress.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I’m really in for it now. I have gone and grown a whole human inside my body, and there is no liberating this tiny person without significant trauma to my body. I don’t care if women have been doing this for eons. We are blazing a trail right through my vagina - right now, today! - and the only way out is through.
For half a second, I consider hopping off the table and making a run for it. I won’t get anywhere; I’m attached to too many things, and even if I could get my feet out of these stirrups before they stopped me, I’d probably just faceplant. But maybe they’d take pity on me and wheel me off for a C-section so I wouldn’t have to push anymore.
“I’m glad you’re all so confident,” I finally gasp, annoyed. “Because I’m not at all sure that this is something I can do.”
Marian’s head snaps up and she looks me dead in the eye.
“Every new mother walks into this room not knowing what she’s capable of,” she insists. “But you’ll see. And you’ll leave here with your baby in your arms, and know that you can do anything.”
And I want to believe her, but I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’ve got needles in my arms, goopy monitors on my belly, a blood pressure cuff around one bicep that inflates and cuts off my circulation whenever the hell it feels like it. My body is doing this crazy uncomfortable thing it’s never done before, and I’m crawling out of my skin, smothered half to death. I have an oxygen mask hanging from one ear. And the party isn’t over until I’m a mother.
She sees my expression, sees me, understands.
“Your body knows what to do. Let’s just take it one contraction at a time and get this little boy out.”
I nod, pulling off the oxygen mask.
“I can do that.”
* * * * *
It’s 3:00 AM, or it was the last time I looked. If my alarm is set for 5:30, then it’s probably 5:27. He’s rolling into me, pawing, smacking his lips. It would be freaking adorable if I weren’t so sick, if he weren’t so needy.
But as it happens, he’s hungry or teething or cold or just snuggly, and if I don’t nurse him, he’ll go nuclear in seconds.
I’ve been puking my brains out for the past 9 hours, and you can guess what else. My stomach is roiling. I’m in a cold sweat. All I want is a heating pad and a soft bed and dark and quiet and maybe some lukewarm water.
But he’s rolling into me, his busy feet burrowing into my aching torso, his sweet little lips smacking noisily as he roots around for a snack.
And it’s just too much. It’s too much to ask of someone in the throes of food poisoning, to balance on their side, to bear the kicks and punches, to be this-fucking-close to a squirming little person. Hell, just to stay there long enough to satisfy the baby, without sprinting for the bathroom again.
I’m trapped, trapped by the state of my body, trapped by the needs of my child. I can’t see how to take care of us both.
I seriously consider crying - fine, more than consider it - but the mothering instinct wins out, every time. I let him belly up to the bar and I try not to feel too sorry for myself.
He latches on, and I sigh, rubbing my forehead with my free hand. My husband watches me sympathetically, and reaches over to squeeze my shoulder.
“If he cries after this, I’ll walk with him,” he offers. “If you can just give him a few minutes on the boob, I’ll take over after that.”
I nod, wincing as a pair of tiny knees swing deep into my belly.
“I can do that.”
* * * * *
It’s 11:45 AM, and he’s been screaming for 90 minutes.
It’s horror. That’s the only way I can describe it. Hands down, the hardest adjustment I have faced as a mother is the visceral panic and pain I feel when my child is in distress.
It reduces me down to instinct, and almost to action, even though I know I can’t. We have rules for a reason, we have a process.
Someone out there has a doctorate in behavioral therapy - plenty of someones - and this is the thing that we do with a kid on the spectrum.
But none of those someones are sitting in my living room, writhing in their skin while my toddler shrieks and trembles and lashes out. They write the manual, but they don’t have to be there in the trenches, impervious to the heartrending cry of their own young.
They don’t have to be stone.
But I have to be stone, and I have to be strong, even though I’m new to all this, even though it goes against every instinct I have and I’m not sure I agree with it and the only thing I want in the world is to hold him so we can fight back the rage and the confusion and the terror together.
Even though I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work, either.
So I record the sound in the room, just a few seconds, as long as I can bear. And I send it to the therapist, asking Is this normal???
I don’t know if I want her to say yes, this is what I expected, stay strong or no, this is something else, intervene.
She doesn’t say either. She asks if he might have an ear infection.
And now I’m sitting here wondering if my child is screaming in physical pain while I bounce the baby on my lap and cheerily, chillingly ignore his cries.
Just stay the course, she tells me. And the second he calms down, praise him and reinforce the positive behavior.
Yeah, I finally text back. I can do that.
An hour later, he collapses in my arms, shuddering and and gasping. I cry into his hair and wonder what I’ve done, if it was right, if there’s another way, if I can do it again if I have to.
I don’t have the answers.
My brain is a twitching echo chamber of why him and why me and oh god i hate this.
* * * * *
I never knew how much pain it could cost you, to love someone so much. To take responsibility for their wellbeing, for their growth, for their happiness. To make the best decisions you could, and never know if you were right.
I talk to my mom about it sometimes, and my mother-in-law. They both tell me the same thing, again and again and again.
“All you can do is love ‘em.”
I can do that.
therealljidol week 19: i can do that