Page 14 of Finding the Pieces

“He turns one in two weeks,” I say, ignoring the confusing pang of giddiness and grief that hits me. I’m stuck in a loop of wanting Luca to stay little forever while also being enamored and fascinated with every new development.

“Awe, that’s such a fun age,” she says wistfully. “Fun and exhausting. Cheers to you, Mom.” She raises her coffee, I presume. I smile, lifting my own in response.

“You would be right,” I say with a laugh, taking another sip of the perfect cup of coffee Dom prepared for our little outing. He makes it best. I can never get the proportions quite right, even though I use the measurements listed. Dom goes based on vibes; I swear to god. The man never measures anything in the kitchen, yet everything he touches is perfect.

“Rose just turned seven last week, but I remember her at that age. The cuddles were the best, but I was a zombie most days. How you hanging in there?”

Wow…no one ever says that to me.

No one outside of my close family members and friends ever ask aboutme. Strangers mostly want to comment on Luca and how incredible babies and motherhood are and how grateful I should be.Better enjoy every momentandisn’tmotherhood just the best?

I’m grateful. Every day I’m grateful. But when someone reminds me to be thankful, it feels like they’re really sayingbetter not complain, because this could all be taken away from you.

Maybe it’s the trauma talking, but I know toxic positivity is some shit too. A lot of people use it to make themselves feel more comfortable when things get too real or I’m too honest. It’s easier to keep things superficial. Yet, here’s a total stranger cutting through the surface level to ask about how I’m handling things. Acknowledging that parenting isn’t all rainbows and sunshine. It’s refreshing to hear another mom be real about how hard it can be too.

“Zombie is a pretty accurate description,” I admit.

“I’m Isabel,” she says. “We live over on Wooster, near the elementary school.”

“I’m Ellie. That’s my husband Dominic and my son Luca. We’re just a few blocks away on Northview Drive.”

“Well, since we’re both close by, if you ever need a fellow mom-zombie to hang out with, I’m here,” Isabell says, and we both laugh.

“I’d like that. I don’t have any close friends with kids,” I say.

Dom and I were ready to have kids, but it’s lonelier than I expected it to be, being the first of our friends to have a child. All of our loved ones are above and beyond supportive, but sometimes I wish I could talk to someone who’s going through the same thing as me. There are some experiences I can’t explain.

“We went through the same thing when Rose was born. Now, all my friends have toddlers and look to me for advice.” She grimaces. “It’s quite the compliment, but god, I was as clueless as they are. None of us know what we’re doing, right? Doesn’t it blow your mind how we assumed adults had their shit together when we were kids, only to become parents and realize they were all full of shit? I’m winging thishard, and now my poor friends realize there are no easy answers to the questions they’re asking me.”

“So, what you’re saying is that thisholy shit, what am I doingapproach to parenthood never goes away?” I ask jokingly.

“Afraid not. But you get more confident winging it. More comfortable sitting in the unknown. Following your gut gets easier. At least, that’s how it felt for me. I was so frustrated and isolated in the first two years or so,thinking everything was black and white. That there was a right way and wrong way to do everything, and I needed to figure out what was right so I could strictly abide by that method. Took me a long time to realize that was all bullshit. I had to blend the black-and-white rules into a murky shade of gray, something between following my gut and making the best call I could with the information I had. Parenthood is a series of impossible decisions with minimal sleep, maximum overstimulation, and a million unwanted opinions from people who arenotyour child’s parent.”

“How did you do it? How’d you get to the other side of that?” I ask. Isabel is a stranger to me, but in just five minutes, she’s put into words what I’m feeling better than I could inweeksof meeting with my last therapist. “I spend every moment of every day afraid that what I’m doing isn’t enough. I’m not doing enough for my son, my husband…”

“What about you?” Isabel asks. “What do you do foryou?”

That stops my thoughts from spiraling into another tangent of guilt.

“Well, I like to read…and I love my friends…I used to like doing yoga…” My voice fades with uncertainty.

“Yeah, and when is the last time you read?” she asks.

I struggled to finish last month’s book club pick…and that was the only book I picked up all month.

“And when you see your girls, are you talking to them about what’s going on? Or hiding in the background, content to let them lead the conversation and keep it all surface level in case you accidentally let them see what’s going on underneath the perfect persona you’re attempting to maintain,” she continues.

“Fuck, are you a mind reader?”

She laughs, lifting her mug to take another sip before saying, “Nope, just another mom. One whose mind told her all the same things I’m willing to bet that yours is telling you. That you’re going to hurt the baby, that something bad is going to happen, that you have to hurry home from your precious solo trip to the store because no one can care for the baby like you do. That even though you’re running yourself into the ground trying to do everything perfectly, you never feel like you’re reaching thiselitemombenchmark. Like the mom youimagined you’d be is so far from the mom you actually are. No one seems to see it, so you keep up the front, keep doing what you’re doing and try to hide what you’re thinking and feeling. Because if they knew what was going on in your mind…I mean, fuck, we’re already judged for every single decision we make as mothers—can you imagine if they heard our entire inner monologue? Shit can get dark up there.”

“That’s…exactly how it feels.” My eyes stuck on Luca, I ask, “Does it get better?”

I realize I’m crying, tears rolling silently down my cheeks, and I work quickly, wiping them away as embarrassment rains over me.

“Yes,” she says with conviction. My eyes lock on hers, and hers soften immediately. “Absolutely, yes. When sleep isn’t quite as hard to find. When you start talking about what you’re going through with the people who matter and love you. When you finally remember that you were a person before you becameMom, and you’re allowed to be some version of that person again. When you allow yourself to ask for not just what you need but also what youwant.

“When you take a drive by yourself and scream your favorite song at the top of your lungs. When you go out with your partner, and their hand brushes your thigh and gives you chills. When you put on clothes that feel good for your body as it exists today, and it boosts your confidence. When you go dancing with your girls, and don’t give a fuck how you look while you’re doing it. When you read that book you’ve been putting on the back burner, and it’s so good you finish it in one sitting. When your baby hits that next milestone and looks up at you with eyes full of pride. When you make space for the bad and the good, but don’t let either define your day. When you learn to live in the gray but still let yourself see other colors too. When you let yourself feel the bad shit instead of trying to shut it down, then it finally lessens and makes room for the good shit. You’ve got to let that toxicity burn away before you can put on the bandages. You can’t stifle the hurt forever. You’re just inviting it to stick around.”

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