Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Heavy Hand-me-Downs
My clothing must have memory. I just sorted through my maternity clothes, meticulously choosing pieces for my newly pregnant friend. I came down from the attic to calm a naptime nightmare from Nori and decided to take a break and make some lunch. I suddenly found myself crying at the kitchen counter, completely confounded at the source of my emotional breakdown. After a little reflection, I realized what it was.
The crated clothing was a chronology of my pregnancy and the months that followed. There was the box of clothing I thought I would never wear because how could I possibly get that big. Then the box of things that fit for the first three months, that I remember looking at, month-four, thinking I would not be able to even get it over my head. Next was the pile of bed rest loungewear; part pajama, part perinatologist prêt a Porte. Then there was the box of things I wore for the three months after the babies were born. In the haze that accompanies a dream that one might have had days ago, I see myself in the Tampa Old Navy, purchasing maternity pants, in denial, perhaps, that I as no longer pregnant. I may have even told the check out girl that my due date was May 13. I needed clothes that would fit the Florida climate and me. Both seemed to not fit me well at all. I wore the same three pairs of pants in rotation for 96 days. It did not matter what I wore because I covered up each day in yellow pliable plastic, protecting my babies from the contamination that may come from my clothes. Now these clothes are contaminated with those memories.
I stopped myself from running back up in the attic and throwing these clothes away, maybe even setting them on fire to destroy their history. Maybe they needed a new memory. Maybe if these clothes experienced a happy pregnancy some of their sadness would be wiped away. The promise of a new life from my friend is a reason to spring clean, to start a fresh and to reassign the sad things to a different place.
Nori is going to CHOP next week to have her PDA valve repaired. (This could also be a trigger for my weeping state!) According to the cardiologist, this is a routine same-day surgery. Being in a hospital with Nori is not a routine that I would like to get into again.
The crated clothing was a chronology of my pregnancy and the months that followed. There was the box of clothing I thought I would never wear because how could I possibly get that big. Then the box of things that fit for the first three months, that I remember looking at, month-four, thinking I would not be able to even get it over my head. Next was the pile of bed rest loungewear; part pajama, part perinatologist prêt a Porte. Then there was the box of things I wore for the three months after the babies were born. In the haze that accompanies a dream that one might have had days ago, I see myself in the Tampa Old Navy, purchasing maternity pants, in denial, perhaps, that I as no longer pregnant. I may have even told the check out girl that my due date was May 13. I needed clothes that would fit the Florida climate and me. Both seemed to not fit me well at all. I wore the same three pairs of pants in rotation for 96 days. It did not matter what I wore because I covered up each day in yellow pliable plastic, protecting my babies from the contamination that may come from my clothes. Now these clothes are contaminated with those memories.
I stopped myself from running back up in the attic and throwing these clothes away, maybe even setting them on fire to destroy their history. Maybe they needed a new memory. Maybe if these clothes experienced a happy pregnancy some of their sadness would be wiped away. The promise of a new life from my friend is a reason to spring clean, to start a fresh and to reassign the sad things to a different place.
Nori is going to CHOP next week to have her PDA valve repaired. (This could also be a trigger for my weeping state!) According to the cardiologist, this is a routine same-day surgery. Being in a hospital with Nori is not a routine that I would like to get into again.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Don't Ask Me About Her
Please do not ask me about the octuplet mom, whose name I do not dare stain this page with for fear that someone googling her will be led to me and anyone interested in her need not apply here. It has been the Whole Foods shopper or passer-byer on the street question of the month: “Not whose eyes do they have,” or “how old are they.” No, it is instead, “Ohh, twins, how sweet! How about that octpulet mom, huh?” Before and while pregnant I struggled with joining the sorority of women made mothers through science. I did not want to be identified with the fertilely challenged, mostly because I hated being a part of the desperation and sadness that so often hung over the silent waiting room of the NJ Reproductive Science Center. We sat, inches from one another, all there for the same reason, eyes glued with shame and embarrassment to the latest issue of US Weekly or The Star thinking, “Hey at least I’m not as messed up as Brittany.” Really, what I was thinking was, “How could that single brain cell star become a mother and I can’t!?” After becoming pregnant with multiples, I played out the many times I would be asked by total strangers if I conceived using IVF, rehearsing ways to answer with poise and grace. I was not over exaggerating how many times this would actually happen, even with just two babies.
But lately, octo-mom has entered the question line-up. A poster woman for the shame, embarrassment and desperation I so wanted to not be associated with. “I am not like her!” I want to scream. Especially because I do not believe she questions her fate the way I do. I won’t say it happens daily, but I often think that the course my pregnancy took was the result of trying to go around mother nature, that perhaps God needs to test me more because I was not meant to be a mother. Then that mania creeps into other things like, “Why buy organic and think holistically about my children when their whole existence is chemically induced?” But I move on and buy the organic bananas because I think they taste better anyway, and I answer each stranger with, “Whew, she really has her hands full,” as I push my double stroller through the door, arms heavy with re-usable bags and a light heart free of shame and embarrassment because regardless of my fate, I believe, that overall, in my way, I am blessed.
But lately, octo-mom has entered the question line-up. A poster woman for the shame, embarrassment and desperation I so wanted to not be associated with. “I am not like her!” I want to scream. Especially because I do not believe she questions her fate the way I do. I won’t say it happens daily, but I often think that the course my pregnancy took was the result of trying to go around mother nature, that perhaps God needs to test me more because I was not meant to be a mother. Then that mania creeps into other things like, “Why buy organic and think holistically about my children when their whole existence is chemically induced?” But I move on and buy the organic bananas because I think they taste better anyway, and I answer each stranger with, “Whew, she really has her hands full,” as I push my double stroller through the door, arms heavy with re-usable bags and a light heart free of shame and embarrassment because regardless of my fate, I believe, that overall, in my way, I am blessed.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)