Artist's Daughter, The: A Memoir (10 page)

F
or all that lonely, silent time, I had lots of time to think. About what I wanted. What I had. What I didn’t. Lots of time to feel what it was to be a mother and let it sink in to shape and change me. How many hundreds of times did I sit on our green oversized sofa and nurse Gabi to sleep? I would draw her to my breast, sit back in the velour pillows, and think and pray.

One afternoon, just as I was starting to come out of the three-month fog, I sat on the sofa for the fourth time that day, nursing the baby. I looked down at my sweatpants and wrinkled T-shirt and wondered if the unidentified odor I smelled was coming from me. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink were a room away, but they were at the forefront of my mind. Because the brain haze was clearing, I was getting anxious about getting some things done. Or at least I was more motivated to get dressed before noon. I’d already failed in that goal for the day. In fact, I hadn’t done anything “productive” in the last week. How was it that one day was melting into the next, I was wearing the same clothes, and not one chore was getting checked off my to-do list?

I’m not doing anything!
I thought. And with a gentle flash, I felt God’s voice press down on me.
You don’t need to do anything.
The feeling came on so quickly and was so against my performance nature that I felt it was certainly a Holy Spirit whisper to my soul. A rush of understanding that God created babies to need to eat every few hours and created mothers a distinct way in order to feed them. That nursing is God’s gift to mothers because it forces us to slow down and savor the early weeks and months with our babies. That feeding Gabi was an incredibly productive job. And that my value didn’t rest in my to-do list anyway. My job was to love God and Gabi while sitting on the sofa. That was it.

I felt God’s love for my uncombed, smelly, sedentary self and agreed he probably didn’t care if the dishes got done that afternoon. I understood all of this in an instant, and that this was only one of many object lessons motherhood would hold. Tiny, mundane things would represent God’s great love for me in unexpected moments.

I’d already experienced one of those unforgettable moments. Despite the fog of the first few months, I distinctly remember sitting in the rocking chair in Gabi’s room a week after bringing her home. It was Papa’s rocking chair. He’d died only months earlier, and with our recent move to Colorado, we’d inherited some of his furniture.

I sat rocking back and forth, the repetitive motion comforting both of us. The light in the room was starting to dim as the sun went down outside, and my toes in their flip-flops pushed down on the floor, rocking the chair back and forth. Gabi was wrapped in a blanket, her tummy full from just eating. I had nowhere else to be but in that chair, rocking.

I thought about how much I loved her after only days of knowing her. For years I’d imagined what it would feel like to love my baby, and I was still unprepared for how pure and selfless it was. Looking down at the dark newborn hair on the top of her head nestled on my chest, I thanked God again for such a perfect gift.

The phrase “I would stand in front of a bus for her” flew through my mind. I laid a gentle kiss on her head and thought,
Yes, I really would step in front of a bus for this person. I would rather die than have her suffer. I would rather take her place.
Just as God took my place on the cross. How many times had I heard, “Once you have a child of your own, you better understand God’s love for you”? It was true. This idea of unconditional love, no conditions, nothing that would change how pure and consistent it was—I had never experienced anything like it before.

Even my love for Derek was tied up in expectations of what a spouse should do. Marriage is two imperfect people bending toward each other, and I let my selfish needs get in the way too often of loving him selflessly. But this tiny baby, the love I felt after knowing her for only a matter of days, had changed me in a new way. I couldn’t expect anything in return because she couldn’t give it. She was absolutely dependent on me loving her without condition.

Back and forth I rocked, praying in silence. No words coming out of my mouth, but my soul singing praise. Thanking God for an inkling of the depth of his love. For letting me experience what it was to love another person without conditions. For letting me understand his love for me with new clarity. I couldn’t give God much. What did I have that he needed? Nothing, really. He loved me—loves me—because he chooses to.

Back and forth I rocked, and I thought of my own mother. How this was a glimpse of her love for me. The tensions of growing up and making different decisions than she would have made slid into the background, because in the foreground was a better understanding of the depth of her love. I thought of her in her apartment in Barcelona, alone, rocking me as a baby, and wondered how that felt. Just the two of us, preparing to take on the world. I thought of her packing her bags with a toddler and again with an eight-year-old for an overseas move. Rocking Gabi, I better
understood my mother’s motives. I felt a new sympathy for her decisions and a new appreciation of how much she’d shaped me. For how much she loved me.

Back and forth I rocked, and I thought about my father. We hadn’t spoken since he’d called a year earlier, September 12, 2001. The day after our nation’s collective heart was broken. I’d stood in our Portland house holding the kitchen phone and heard the familiar delay of the overseas call. “The world is behind America. We are with you,” he told me, neither of us knowing what the world had in store in the years, or even days, to come. Though brief, it was one of the more tender conversations we’d ever share. He recognized my American side without hinting of distaste. And for a moment he acknowledged my insecurity.

Back and forth I rocked. He didn’t know we’d moved to Denver or that I had been expecting a baby. I wondered how he would feel, knowing I had a daughter. I felt a sadness that surprised me, because it wasn’t a sadness for me, it was for him. Did he feel this kind of love for me when I was a baby? If so, what had kept him away? How could he possibly have stayed away? It seemed like a God-given wiring that I loved Gabi this much. I pictured her on the other side of the world, and my heart ached at the thought of that distance. Another phrase came to mind: “Going to the ends of the earth.” Again, yes, I would go to the ends of the earth for this baby. I imagined myself in a fur-trimmed hooded parka, trekking through the blowing snow to get to an igloo to reunite with my lost child. Maybe I would never understand what kept him away.

Back and forth I rocked Gabi, and I promised her I would love her always.

I
brought copies of the recipe for these cookies,” our class facilitator shouted above the room’s chatter. Sitting on the plastic exercise mat with Gabi lying in front of me, I looked around at the other women. Each one had her baby in front of her, a matching set of mother and child. My eyes skimmed their faces, and I wondered if any could be a treasured friend, a “bosom friend,” as Anne of Green Gables referred to her Diana.

I wanted a bosom friend. I missed having friends who knew me, women who knew I liked cream in my coffee, that I wore sweaters because I was always cold, that I was allergic to cats. Women with shared histories, experiences, who knew me before I was a mom, knew that I could be witty, that despite my recent wrinkled appearance, I did in actuality know how to iron, and that my Spanish was better than my Italian. That I didn’t have to explain where or how I met my husband because they knew him and loved him too.

Looking around the room, I couldn’t tell if anyone had bosom-friend potential or was even looking for it in the same way I was. We were in a classroom on the maternity floor of Saint Joseph Hospital
in Denver. A few months had passed since my postpartum haze, and I was starting to move from a low-level state of desperation to a low-level handle on baby care. The facilitator for this new mom class had two kids, ages two and four, so as far as we were all concerned, she was a certified expert in all things mothering.

“It calls for whole wheat flour and natural sweetener,” she half-yelled above the room’s chatter.

I took a bite of my cookie and thought it was tasty, but an Oreo would be better. I wondered what she’d think if she knew I had a Snickers bar in my purse. A king-sized one.

The moms grabbed copies of the cookie recipe as it was passed around and studied it intensely while nodding their heads in approval. They wanted everyone to know they agreed it looked like the makings of an excellent, nutritious snack that only a mother could whip up. We were all there to get a recipe for successful mothering, and the cookie recipe was the closest we’d received yet, so we took it very seriously.

Every Wednesday morning, this group met for an hour and a half. Because the group was for new mothers with babies up to six months of age, it was fluid with the veterans aging out and newly terrified moms arriving weekly. I don’t suppose it was an accident that the woman who led the group was not only a mom but also a hospital social worker. We were a desperate group of women and only half-jokingly said we needed professional help. Each meeting we’d discuss a topic, like healthy snacks, for half an hour and then move into the part we’d all been waiting for: time to talk to the women on either side of us.

It was like the beginning of recess on a playground; once granted permission for free time, we scrambled to get going and not waste a single second of potential conversation. The questions came out with such speed we forgot to breathe in between.

“Did your baby get her three-month shots yet? Are you going back to work? Are you happy about that? Have you been pumping?
What brand of diapers absorbs the best? What brands are on sale at King Soopers this week?” Anything, really, that would be a connection point. That would give us insight into navigating days with a newborn and help us assess if there was a potential friend in the women sitting around us. Anything that would say we were alike, that we weren’t crazy. Anything that would affirm we were doing it right.

I came to the group via the one mommy friend, Jennifer, who’d plopped into my life. The weekend we pulled the moving van into my in-laws’ driveway, Derek and I went to a party in Denver at his friend Brian’s house. Brian had gone to graduate school with Derek in Portland and moved to Denver with his bride, Crystal, a year earlier. I didn’t know them, but I already missed friends back home and figured a party was better than unloading the moving van.

Jennifer and I were both pregnant, sitting on Brian and Crystal’s front porch, appreciating the cool the evening offered. My swollen feet were wedged into my flip-flops, glad to be getting a break from holding up the extra weight my petite frame was carrying. Neither of us knew anyone other than our husbands and the party’s hosts, so we found refuge in each other’s pregnancy war stories. Jen was outgoing—what I needed to make that conversation happen—and funny. It was good to laugh with someone, and at the end of the night when we exchanged phone numbers, I assumed she had a whole slew of girlfriends who took up her allotted friend hours.

But then a few weeks later she called. And I called her back. Just a few conversations as our due dates approached, but they were an unexpected gift. A dating relationship of sorts. It felt nice to be pursued. A few weeks after our babies were born, the frequency of the phone calls increased. It didn’t take long to stop feeling like I didn’t have anyone to call. A social worker as well, Jen began to find resources for us like we were her two neediest clients. She found every puppet show and mommy-and-me swim class in the greater metro area. I hated going to the freezing pool, but I lived
for getting out of the house, so I followed along. Where Jen went, I went. Our baby girls, just ten days apart, shared their developmental milestones. Their mommies did too.

Jen found out about the class at Saint Joseph Hospital. Desperately lonely with a completely open schedule, I signed up. Each week I pushed the stroller through the maze of hospital hallways back to the car with an air of disappointment. Jen seemed to be making other friends. I wasn’t jealous of her new friendships, just of the ease with which she made them. She was becoming my dearest companion, but she had a life; she couldn’t be my everything. I knew it was good for everyone if I had more friends, it was just that the effort required seemed forced. I’d always connected with others naturally through things I was already part of—work, church, other friendships. Being new to Denver, I didn’t bring those pre-baby connections with me. The only thing I had in common with these women were babies the same age, and that wasn’t enough. I needed more because I was more.

Each week as I walked back to the parking garage, I thought about my crew back in Portland, imagining what they were doing. As I strapped Gabi into her car seat, I wondered if my introverted nature was getting in the way of making friends. Maybe if I asked more questions, I’d get past the diaper discussions. Despite my disappointment, as soon as I pulled my seat belt strap across my chest, I started counting the days until the next Wednesday, hopeful next week might be the week I made a connection.

I
looked at Gabi chewing on the plush toy that belonged to Carrie’s baby, Logan. Not sure how Logan’s mom would react to the germ sharing, I glanced over at her. She was deep in explanation about their recent house remodel. Ten of us from the hospital group decided to keep our weekly meeting times. All first-time moms, we needed a place to ask questions and normalize the sleep-deprived, hormone-driven life we were leading. It was Carrie’s turn to host the group, so all of the babies were exploring her toy selection.

Gabi had recently learned to sit up, but Logan, only a month older, was toddling around her. Logan’s hair looked so put together—the bows holding up her chocolate-colored curls matched her coordinated outfit. I looked at Gabi. Her almost white-blonde hair was growing out like Bozo the Clown’s, almost nothing on top and long around the base of her head. Her pink flowered pants and green striped shirt would never be considered an “outfit.” Looking at Carrie again, the mother in the well-coifed pair, I wondered how long it took her to do her hair in the morning. I examined her part, impressed that she could make a ponytail look like a hairstyle. I was sure I could never get a ponytail to look that good.

“You know my husband’s in construction, so he just laid the foundation for the add-on.” She was pointing to the large bedroom added onto the back of the kitchen. I wondered how it felt to be married to someone in construction. To have a new master bedroom. To have hair that looked like it was straight from the salon. Though I was starting to get to know the women in the group, I was often using our time together as a way to escape into their lives and, as a result, find dissatisfaction in mine. Everyone seemed to have something different, better, than I did. A nicer house, better vacations, a husband who made more money. Despite my generally confident nature, my insecurities were the only thing I seemed to have more of.

I left every week wondering why we talked so long about diaper rash cream and so little about things that mattered. Well, things that mattered to me: why I loved my baby so fiercely, how I apologized to Derek for being too quick to flash anger, what I cried about in the middle of the night. It wasn’t a safe place to be vulnerable, so I let my insecurities take over, and inside my head it got ugly. Feeling like I had loftier topics to cover made me feel deep, but really I was just self-righteous.

A month rolled around, and it was my turn to host the group again. I started preparing days ahead. Shopping for the snacks. Wiping down the baseboards. Cleaning the toilet. Tasks I was able to overlook for months at a time had a sudden urgency. Why didn’t I have ten matching glasses? Why hadn’t Derek painted the trim in the basement yet? Why was my house so small? I felt nauseous at the thought of Amy seeing my college futon as our basement sofa. I thought of her remodeled playroom and wanted to stomp my feet.

Don’t do that
, I told myself.
You have a husband who loves you and a healthy baby. You shouldn’t care about what your house looks like. You are lucky to have a house.
The self-talk worked for a few minutes. I remembered Erica, whose townhome was smaller than mine, and Courtney, whose husband traveled all week for work,
and my comparisons would stop. But it was a short-term fix; the long-term issues didn’t go away. I wasn’t satisfied with what I had. I was comparing, and it left me wanting more.

A few weeks later, I drove out of the city to the suburbs south of Denver. Courtney had moved out of her cottage in Wash Park to a new house, one with more space, and we were all meeting there for the first time. As I drove through the suburban neighborhood, I wondered how anyone my age could afford such luxury. It felt so adult, like places where people older, more grown-up, lived. I was getting farther down my list of directions, which meant I was getting closer to my final destination, and the houses were getting bigger and nicer with each turn. I opened the back car door to get Gabi out of her car seat, and the scratch on the door caught my attention.

As I walked up to the house, I considered turning around to go home. This wasn’t good for me, this always wanting what I didn’t have. But I’d been counting the days for the social time, and I wasn’t about to miss it. The front door was open, and the chatter from the women who’d already arrived was floating out onto the front porch. Stepping inside, I found an empty, carpeted living room to my right and a formal dining room to my left. I followed the voices and stepped into a showroom-like kitchen. Courtney was standing behind the island talking in her usual animated way, arms flailing as she told a story of her latest girls’ weekend away. My eyes went around the kitchen to the cherry cabinets, the stainless steel appliances, the granite countertops, and I thought,
She doesn’t even like to cook.

Courtney saw me out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, hey, Alex. Come on in.” She was genuinely gracious. “Put your bag anywhere, we’re just going to hang out on the floor. I’ve ordered the new furniture, but it’s not here yet.” She waved her hand in the direction of the playroom off the kitchen. I looked over to see familiar mom and baby faces already sprawled on the floor and catching up from the week apart. I saw Carrie and her great hair. I lifted
my hand to my head and tried to smooth my hair. Why was it so frizzy? Neither straight nor curly, it didn’t offer me much. I looked down at my jeans. The term “mom jeans” was probably created after someone saw me. I wanted to disappear. Nothing seemed enough. My house. My car. My hair. My clothes.

I propped Gabi in a sitting position on the cream carpet and let the diaper bag slide down my arm onto the floor next to her. Logically I knew these thoughts weren’t true. I was more than the sum of my stuff. I was created in God’s image. To be made to reflect the Creator was not something I blew off. But it was hard to absorb, to internalize and live from. Especially when there were cabinets and jeans and SUVs taunting me at every turn, saying, “She has more, she’s worth more.”

I turned back toward the kitchen and listened to Courtney talk about the all-inclusive resort in Mexico she’d visited two weeks earlier. I indulged in the thought of a vacation by the pool. No baby needing to be changed or held. I knew I didn’t really want to go on vacation without Gabi, but for just a minute, the idea of a magazine and a froufrou drink with an umbrella and friends from college sounded wonderful. I smiled as I realized my mini daydream was the closest to a vacation like that I’d have in a long time, if ever.

Courtney must have seen me out of the corner of her eye again because she stopped midsentence and turned to me. “Alex, you look so great!”

The other women standing around the island turned in unison and looked me up and down to see if they agreed.

“Uh, thanks?” If only she knew the internal dialogue, the insecurities, the obsession with the outward appearance I’d been having. The lack of confidence about the package I presented.

“You’re always so put together,” she said as she turned back to her audience to finish her story.

My smile widened. Really, if only she knew.