13. Sawyer
Sawyer
T he bassinet sat in the corner of my bedroom, strategically positioned between my dresser and the window where the light trickled in through the curtains.
It was compact enough to fit without making it hard for me to make it from one side of the bed to the other.
I’d put it together during one of my many sleepless nights.
I hadn’t slept a full eight hours straight in weeks.
The icing on the cake was the small mobile with stars and the letter K on it for Kareena, which meant pure and innocent.
It was the closest girl’s name to Kareem’s that I actually liked, and I wanted her to have a small piece of her father with her, even if she never got to meet him.
I’d been nesting, carving out space—both figuratively and emotionally—for Kareena.
I’d moved my nightstand into the living room, pruned my wardrobe, and folded the freshly washed onesies and blankets I’d bought myself into baskets that lived at the top of my closet.
Every square foot of my tiny one-bedroom apartment had been reorganized to make room for the only person who knew what my heartbeat sounded like from the inside.
Everything I’d done was for her, and I hadn’t even laid eyes on her yet.
My place was far from Pinterest-worthy, but I was somewhat ready.
Mentally, though? Not at all. But my due date was two weeks away—which meant motherhood was right around the corner and I had fourteen raggedy ass days to get my shit together.
I kept counting down the days as if seeing the X’s on the calendar would magically make me feel more prepared. It didn’t.
I felt like I’d been suspended between two dimensions since Christmas—one where I had Kareem stuck in my head like a song on repeat, and one where I had to face reality and parenthood alone.
Butta curled up beside the bassinet, guarding it with his life. It was as if he was a big dog trapped in a small dog’s body. I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on my basketball-shaped belly and the other tracing the bassinet as my thoughts drifted.
I hadn’t heard from Kareem. No letters. No calls from prison.
Nothing. I missed him every day. He was being held in a Florida prison, where he was initially supposed to be transferred back in July, but I still couldn’t visit or write him.
I hated being so close but having to stay so far away.
Even more than that, I hated that I still checked the mailbox, thinking maybe he’d sent something.
A letter. Another plane ticket. A sliver of hope.
Although we couldn’t communicate, deep down, I knew he was thinking about me. About us.
I breathed through the heartache before reaching over to fold another onesie.
Soleil was back in North Carolina but checked in on me every hour on the hour—sending funny TikTok videos of pregnant women dancing or sharing mom advice and providing updates on the baby shower she insisted on throwing me.
She’d be returning in a few days for it, assuming I didn’t go into labor early.
As of my last appointment, my baby girl was in the head-down position and could make her debut at any time.
So much so that Butta had gone back to following me around the apartment every time I moved.
If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be having a baby shower at all.
I’d register online and have all the gifts delivered straight to my apartment, so I wouldn't have to stress about what to wear that made me look cute and not feel like Fiona from Shrek , or how to wear my braids that I’d barely been able to sit through an install for.
Unfortunately for me, I was far from mindful, cutesy, or demure in my third trimester.
The baby had me feeling borderline mentally ill, bitchy, and a bit demonic.
My lower back constantly ached. My feet were swollen like Will Smith’s face in Hitch.
And my nose had spread halfway across my damn face.
Luckily, my job had allowed me to work from home and make all my appointments virtual before transitioning into maternity leave.
The only thing I was excited about was being under the same roof with my girls Kaneesha and Brit again.
November felt like a decade ago, and I was sure the group FaceTime calls weren’t doing my case of the uglies or my Santa-like belly any justice.
Whatever I showed up to my baby shower looking like, I knew I’d be surrounded by people who would be there to spoil my baby girl with love.
My baby shower rolled around, and I was surprised but thankful to be in better spirits.
The clubhouse was decorated in sage green and soft pink, with ivory accents for my ‘Baby in Bloom’ themed shower.
The tables were covered in pink satin runners and floral centerpieces with pink honeycomb bases, and there was a balloon arch leaning to the left by the gift table.
The playlist was rocking with some of my favorite hits from the likes of Beyoncé, H.E.R.
, and my old-school faves, Frankie Beverly and Maze, and Chaka Khan.
There were mason jar-shaped drink dispensers filled with pink lemonade and regular lemonade with lemon slices in them, and platters of all my favorite comfort foods, catered by my coworker’s cousin—homemade baked mac and cheese, jerk chicken wings, smoked collard greens, and banana pudding with the Chessman cookies.
Soleil had gone all out without me having to lift a finger. I found myself trying not to cry before the event even started. Just as my eyes began to get watery, Neesh and Brit burst through the door. Neesh’s arms were full of gift bags, and Brit was right behind her, dragging a large box.
“Have no fear, the god-mommies of the year are here!” Neesh announced in all her dramatic flair. “I’ve got a box of diapers, some pacifiers, the best baby bottles on the market, and a flower tub. Oh, and a onesie that says, ‘ My Auntie is Finer Than Yours .’ Thank me later.”
“And I’ve got a sound machine, and one of those vibrating baby swings that cost me more than my rent, but my goddaughter deserves royalty, so royalty she shall have,” Brit added.
I grinned from ear to ear as I waddled over to hug them. “Thank y’all so much. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Reunited and it feels so good,” Brit sang, giving her best rendition of Peaches and Herb’s classic.
“You know we had to show out for you. You’re the first one in the group to get preggers. We’re living vicariously through you right now,” Neesh insisted.
Brit nodded. “Besides, we know one day you’ll return the favor.”
“Just y’all don’t fuck around and get pregnant at the same time,” I responded.
“So, y’all hos are trying to upstage me on the gift giving, huh?” Soleil called out to them from across the room. “It’s war, bitches!”
Before either of them could respond, my mom walked in carrying a tray of mini sweet potato pies—courtesy of my grandmother’s recipe. To me, seeing her standing there with those pies was better than any baby gift.
“Y’all better stop all that cussing around my grandbaby. I don’t care if she’s still baking—she’s got ears and she’s listening to all y’all foolishness.”
Neesh nodded at my mother. “Yes, ma’am. We promise to keep things PG. I can’t say the same for that daughter of yours over there, though,” she commented through a giggle.
“Mommy!” I squealed, my eyes misting as I toddled over to her.
My mother stepped closer, wearing a soft pink blouse with her salt-and-pepper mini twists pulled back into a low ponytail. She set the tray to the side and outstretched her arms to me.
“Look at you. You’re glowing. I can’t believe my baby girl is having a baby girl.”
We embraced in a tight, tearful hug that said I missed you more than anything without saying anything at all. I buried my face in her shoulder, careful not to mess up my makeup.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mommy. I know you’re scared to fly.”
She pulled back to look at me. “I still am, but there was no way I’d miss this. I’d hotwire a spaceship to get to the moon for you, Sawyer. I had your auntie drop me off at the station, and I took the train down here.”
“You took that long train ride for me? How was it?”
“Long, like you said, but scenic. All that matters is that my pies and I made it here safe and sound. Your sister is trying to convince me to fly back with her, but I’m not so sure.”
I breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “All that matters is that you’re here now.”
We hugged again, mother and daughter, reunited at last. And for a second, everything felt right with the world.
As more guests arrived, the clubhouse transformed into a loud, chaotic hub of activity.
I wobbled over and sat in a green velvet, high-back chair with my round belly outlined perfectly underneath a long, pink, off-the-shoulder dress, my boho braids pulled into a high bun with a few ringlets framing my face, and pink, fluffy slippers on my feet that rested on a small ottoman.
Soleil was in full command of the shower like she was running her classroom—rocking an olive green jumpsuit, gold hoops, a bob wig with bangs, and a clipboard we both knew was just for show.
She turned the music down before clapping. “Alright, ladies, gather around. We’re about to play our first game.”
I smacked my lips. “I thought I said no games.”
“I believe your exact words were no wack shit. And lucky for you, wack shit isn’t in my vocabulary. Now, it’s time for theBaby Sitter Game! And yes, it’s as simple as it sounds for any slow pokes in the room,” she said, eyeing Neesh and Brit.
Lisa, my coworker with the caterer cousin hookup, stood to her feet. “How do we play?”
“I’m going to split you all up into three teams. Then, you’ll take turns racing back and forth to grab the pink balloons out of the baskets.
Inside each balloon is a letter. You need to run back to your seat, sit on it, and pop it before the next person in line runs to get another.
The team that is the first to spell b-a-b-y wins,” my sister explained.
Neesh immediately side-eyed Soleil. “What the hell kind of game is this? I thought we were gon’ be doing crossword puzzles and shit.”
“I’m running this shower, and I believe in chaos. So, you’re welcome,” Soleil replied with a grin.
“Y’all already know I’m the competitive one, so I’m down,” Brit added.
I giggled. “I think I’m going to enjoy watching this.”
Lisa nodded. “I’m down too.”
Meanwhile, my mom was having a time struggling to rehang a banner over the food table that read “Little Sprout,” but kept putting it up backward.
Then came the time to eat and open gifts.
Soleil insisted that I unwrap one of hers first—a onesie that said, “Take me to my Auntie, you Peasant.” The room erupted in laughter, including me.
I hadn’t expected anything less from her.
She’d even thrown in a chew toy for Butta that said Big Brother . That almost made me cry.
The shower ended a couple of hours later with everyone full of banana pudding, mini sweet potato pies, and joy.
I’d laughed so hard I’d forgotten how overwhelmed I was.
I looked around—my big sister, my best friends, my mommy, and even my coworkers—and felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: happiness—messy, noisy, genuine happiness.
Two and a half hours later, the shower concluded. The tables and chairs were stacked in the corner. The leftovers had been set aside for me to take home. The balloon arch had been popped, and all the gifts I received had been loaded into multiple vehicles, ready to drive over to my apartment.
I sat in the chair, rubbing my belly, trying not to fall asleep from the food coma. As if she could read my mind, Soleil walked over from the small kitchen, carrying two cups of lemonade, and handed me one.
“Still conscious?”
“Barely. I think my baby has a food baby.”
We sat quietly for a second. It was the kind of familiar silence between us that neither of us felt urged to fill.
I reached out for her hand. “Thank you for everything,” I said genuinely. “Even though you had to do all of this with me kicking and screaming, this was the best day I’ve had in a long time.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Sawyer. You’re my baby sister, and you’re bringing my niece into the world.”
“I didn’t think I’d laugh as much as I did today. I haven’t felt this . . . normal probably since before I found out I was pregnant.”
“It’s good to feel joy. To smile. To feel alive again, even in the midst of life’s bullshit,” she encouraged me.
I sighed. “I woke up thinking about him today . . . how it would’ve gone if he were here to meet Mama and my friends.”
Her lips twisted to the side, making a funny face. “I don’t know about all that. That shit might’ve been scarier than when the cops burst into your apartment on Christmas.”
I giggled. “Shut up.”
“C’mon, let’s get these gifts to your place and figure out where the hell we’re going to fit all of them. You know you live in a Polly Pocket house,” she joked with a giggle.
I smacked my lips before taking a sip of the lemonade. “Shut up.”
“Seriously, Sawyer. I’ve seen tiny houses with more space than your apartment.” She snickered.
I rolled my eyes with a smile as I rose to my feet. “Like you live in the Taj Mahal. Let’s go, ugly.”
“Lead the way.”