30. Kendall #2
“I haven’t washed the bedding quite yet, but once I do, I’ll have it all set up.
” I point at the bedding still wrapped in its original packaging.
It’s a lavender color with moons and stars printed on it.
It matches the crescent moon lampshade sitting on the dresser next to the changing pad and the star decals James applied along the windowpanes.
“That’s why I’m here,” she tells me, batting her hand in my direction.
“No, Mom. You’re a guest. You’re not here to do manual labor—”
“Yes, I am,” she argues. “That’s exactly what I’m here for.” She moves into the closet only to discover bags and bags of baby clothes. Most of it was handed down to us by James’s sister, some from a recent baby shower put together by Teeny and their mom. And a few we bought on a whim.
James sidles up to my side and whispers into my ear, “I’m going to go pick up some food.”
“Oh, can we get burgers please?” I request. My brow shoots up with insistence, and I know I’ve won the nonexistent battle for tonight’s dinner menu.
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” I tell him with a grin. He leaves the room, and I return my attention back to my mom. She’s begun sifting through the bags of clothes, separating them into different piles. “What are you doing?”
“Organizing them by size,” she says, matter-of-factly. “And you can take them out of the bags as the baby grows into them. For now, we can wash the newborn sizes so they’re ready for when you come home from the hospital.”
“That’s actually really convenient. Thanks, Mom.”
I sit in the rocking chair, settling my weight so it’s evenly distributed on the soft cushions instead of all pressed into my lower back. I put my feet up on the matching footrest and start swaying back and forth.
“How’s Javier?”
“He’s good,” she answers. “He’s actually going on a fishing trip this weekend, so I’m sure he’s doing great.”
“That’s good.” I consider offering some help from where I’m at, but I can tell she’s in her zone. She’d most likely turn me away anyway. “James went to go get some food, by the way. In case you’re hungry.”
“Mm-hmm.” She’s folding a pink onesie with daisies printed on it. It’s one of the baby shower gifts that came in a pack of five. Apparently, onesies are a staple in newborn fashion.
I twiddle with my fingers, watching my mom work.
She moves from onesie to sweaters to dresses at a quick pace, and she’s already moving onto a second bag.
I give in and reach for a bag. One that’s within arm’s reach.
I start to fold, checking for sizes categorized by age in months at a much slower speed than my mom.
“I’ll do that,” she fusses, just as I expected.
“I’m getting bored, Mom,” I insist. “It’ll give me something to do instead of just staring at you while you work like a bee.”
“How are you feeling?” Her rhythm eases, and it’s like we’re just two women chatting over coffee and knitting needles.
I sigh. “Tired. Like all the time.”
“You think you’re ready?”
“Is any new mom ever really ‘ready?’” I throw out an ambiguous set of air quotes.
Because when are we really ready? This is a huge change.
We’re going to have a little baby in our home.
A baby we know nothing about. She’s basically a stranger, and I have to fend for her life.
It’s a huge undertaking. But women all over the world do it every day. So I should be able to too, right?
“Are you okay though?”
I shrug. Another diffident gesture. “I’m fine.”
“Just fine?”
I nod.
“Have you thought about that therapist thing we talked about?” She mentioned it early on in my pregnancy. Just a way to work through my last one and to somehow segue into this one. I never did, of course.
“No,” I answer, my voice guilt-ridden. She doesn’t judge or question me, rattling off a rant of inquiries about my mental health. It’s not her style. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“You can just try one session,” she suggests. “And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again.”
“You think I won’t like it?”
“No,” she answers honestly. “I just don’t want you to feel trapped. You have options, and you should get the help you need.”
“I guess.”
“Do you…feel like you need to talk?” she asks in an encouraging way that isn’t necessarily implying I only talk to a therapist. She’s here now, folding tiny baby clothes while offering a nonjudgmental ear.
“I don’t know,” I say, reaching for a pair of teeny-tiny sweatpants. “I think this whole pregnancy happened so fast, and I…” I pause, pushing aside the clothes as my attention wanes. “I don’t know. This feels really stupid, but I feel like I have to…move on.”
“Move on from what?”
“The miscarriage,” I confess. I feel like I just admitted a sin, something immoral and dishonest. After more than three years, I’m still deep in this mourning period. I’m one melancholic episode away from changing out my entire wardrobe to black and dark shades of gray.
“And you don’t think you’ve moved on?” She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle. A jumbled-up Rubik’s cube ready to be solved but no real way for her to start.
“I know I haven’t. And then there’s this guilt that just sits low in my stomach, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.
I want to love this baby with my entire heart, but doesn’t that mean I’m leaving our first baby behind?
I’m just forgetting about her and that means I’m a horrible, horrible person, and if I’m a horrible person, then what kind of mom am I going to be?
” Tears have started to stream down my face, and my words have blended and blubbered together.
I barely got them out, and I know there’s more.
I gave her the short, watered-down version.
The more palatable one. I didn’t mention the darker thoughts that possess me. The ones that feel empty and final.
“You don’t have to hold onto your grief just because you feel guilty,” she tells me, scooting closer so her hands are resting on my knees. I notice some of my tears splat on her knuckles, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them. “You’re allowed to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”
I nod, knowing I can’t tell her no. No, I’m not allowed to be happy.
I definitely don’t deserve it. I’m not allowed to move on and live my life as if I didn’t suffer a loss at some point.
She doesn’t know the things I witnessed.
She wasn’t there while I watched my little girl die in my arms. And I let her.
I let her drift away when I should’ve been doing everything I could to save her.
But I just sat there, crying like a cowardly fool.
No. I can never move on.