Part One
Like a nod of affirmation to my frigid feet, it was a rough start. We lived in the basement of my generous grandparents' house, took months to find a job, had very little direction, failed to follow through with our goals, and winter swiftly invaded with an army of snowflakes and bitter winds. I was uncomfortably pregnant, far in the country without a car, home alone (once Patrick procured a job and my grandparents migrated south for the winter) with a boy, near-baby himself, who's deepest desire was to be carried around most of the day. I suffered from back pain, loneliness, poverty, and a pervading darkness which infiltrated every nook and cranny of that winter.
And that was what I had to offer this new little baby, who we knew would be a brother for our first. I felt a keen understanding for a woman long ago who had welcomed her baby to an animal stall because no room could be found elsewhere. Physically, we had a warm place and enough space, but I struggled to make room in my soul for another birth, no matter how miraculous. Our start was rough and I feared for the effect it was to have on his start.
Life still happens, whether or not you have prepared yourself for it and though I felt overwhelmed and fairly helpless, my time did expire. I went to bed one night, tossing uncomfortably throughout as my body whispered the same utterance over and over until early morning when I felt my husband stir and could finally relay the message.
"I don't think you should go to work today," I told him.
It was a Tuesday and would have been the exact anniversary marking three months of his employment, a significant date because it indicated the end of his probationary period and the beginning of some urgently needed job benefits. He would spend the anniversary at home, because I was so sure that this was the day, my fourth day past due. I predicted an initiation of activity any minute and a baby by mid-afternoon.
The prophecy went unfulfilled.
As the day wore on with nary a contraction, I became increasingly skeptical of my body and my ability to read its signals. I doubted, concurrently becoming more frustrated at being four days and twelve, fifteen, twenty hours over due. The evening approached and tummies started to wonder where their next meal would come from. Obviously not from the hospital cafeteria. Obviously not from this frustratedly inflated woman. Obviously not from the soberly empty space in our fridge.
I just wanted to get out of the house. So we drove the six miles to the nearest grocery store. Snow fluttered lightly through the crisp January air. I opened my door, stretched my leg to the ground, and flinched as a hormone orchestrated muscular wave overtook me and threatened to throw my outstretched leg across the parking lot.
Nope. Not what you think, I told myself, convinced that I had cried wolf in the wee hours of that morning.
I placed my other foot next to the first and followed Patrick, who carried little Nolan into our favorite store, Ovid's Big M. Just past the door, another wave crashed over me. I looked around for somewhere to sit. There wasn't. Unable to believe that I was experiencing anything other than something starting with a B and ending with some hicks, I didn't say anything to Patrick, ironed out the contortions in my face, and followed behind as we made our way to the freezer. We selected the meal of our choice, a supremely frozen pizza, and turned back to the front of the store. At the register, a lady smiled to greet us. I winced back as my body once again took the reins. PTB handled the transaction.
Back in the car, a few miles down the road, after yet another face contorting convulsion of my lower half, I calculated the frequency of occurrences. My conclusion: Maybe this is something. And maybe not. I was still doubtful. I had twiddled my thumbs, and paced our basement apartment all day. For nothing.
I was not about to cry wolf twice in one day.
Our favorite store huh? I'll hold you to that.
ReplyDeleteThanks for expressing yourself, bytheway. You're beautiful.