Impermanence

On Grieving the Season of Pregnancy and Early Motherhood

On a cold day in February, I sit on the floor of my daughter’s room. A pile of her newborn clothing- much of which was also my son’s newborn clothing- sits in front of me. I clutch my mug of coffee, and pull my knees to my chest, staring at the jumbled mess of pink pajamas, onesies emblazoned with “baby sister,” and teeny knit hats. A lump forms in my throat. I sigh. “It’s just putting away their baby clothing Colleen. Get it together.”

As I start to gently fold, I am taken aback by the enormity of my grief. Last time I sat on this floor folding up baby clothing was her brother’s first birthday. But it was different. Plans for her were already in the works. At that point I was lost in a fog of thought about the next go around- the next embryo transfer, the next pregnancy, the next postpartum period. It all felt so-permanent. Like I would forever be in the season of leaking breasts and chubby, soft hands reaching for me in the night.

My husband appears at her door. “I’m not donating these. I’m keeping them.” I gesture to the plastic bin filled with the clothing. “What are you going to do….ask to be buried with them??” My husband chuckles. He doesn’t seem to get it. He doesn’t understand that her little pink newborn onesie isn’t just a onesie- it’s taking her home from the hospital, gingerly lifting her out of the car seat, and sitting down on the couch whispering, “Ez, come meet your baby sister!” He doesn’t grasp that the bear hat isn’t just a hat- it’s the very first stroller walk with my baby boy. It’s me, nervously peddling the brake to make sure it’s on at every crosswalk light, gazing down at his perfect little cheeks, pink from the cold.

I was not prepared for how it would feel to leave the season of pregnancy and babies. A season that is arguably one of the hardest of my life. I have spent many a sleep-deprived night holding my daughter or son in one arm and gripping my phone with white knuckles, googling slightly unhinged things along the lines of “how to tell if baby bit through nipple. Hurts so bad?”

Because to be clear, most days do feel like drowning right now. It’s true what they say-two kids feels like ten, a lot of the time. I spend much of my time trying to figure out the seemingly unsolvable puzzle of how to tend to my most basic of hygiene needs while also never leaving their sides. “Ezra I need to grab my toothbrush, if you sit on the couch for 30 seconds without hurting her you get a STAR!” I sprint to the bathroom and try to make it back down the stairs before it occurs to my son to sink his teeth into my daughter’s foot for the 3rd time this morning. Adding another child right now would feel beyond manageable. I honestly don’t know how we would do it. (And then of course, there is the not-so-small issue that both of my children came about through IVF, and that I do not have the mental strength-or the finances- to put my body through any more rounds.)

And yet-I can’t seem to shake the thought of wanting another. Sometimes I watch them playing together and I lose myself in the daydream of another little infant, rolling around the activity gym and watching the two of them with awe.

 “You really want more of this?” My husband gestures to my one-year-old laying one the floor, red-faced and screaming because I committed the grave offense of taking a sharpie away from her. He gestures again to my three-year-old son who is stark naked, trotting towards us from the living room shouting, “oh no-my fart is on the floor Mama!”

No, he’s right. I absolutely don’t. I want time to move faster, to be done with diapers and night time wailing. I want the next chapter to arrive- the one where I have slightly more of my own identity, where my body is my own, where I can reasonably go out for an evening with my husband without feeling frantic anxiety about leaving them.

But, and this is just as true-Yes. I want more. I want more chaos, more of their hands reaching for me- “up mama?” More afternoons filled with their unique little laughs- one a cackle, one more of a roar. I want more of this moment where making them smile is as easy as holding up a scarf, whipping it down and saying “peekaboo!” I want to suspend time so that their worries are always as small as “I fell down and hit my knee!” and the solution is always as easy as saying “Oh no sweetheart, do you want mama to kiss it?”

Maybe the simple truth is that these waves of grief are nothing more than proof of the love that I learned throughout this time. These past years of constant giving far beyond my capacity-of being filled up and then drained, daily-it’s all been so difficult, so testing, and so achingly beautiful.  So, I fold up the clothing and put the bin in the basement. One of a series of infinitely small, but daily steps away from this season. One day, not long from now, I’ll pause to reflect on memories of the days when I always had a baby on my hip- and it will all feel as far away as a dream.