Give me back my baby.
There's baby socks, baby books and a tiny little onesie in our apartment. Sometimes I'll take them out and just cry. I try not to tell JP because he's got enough going on without me being miserable. Alcohol, cigarettes and music are my consolation. . . no- they're my distractions.
It's hard, you know. I mean . . other than how hard you think it may be. It's harder. There were the physical effects, chunks of stuff just falling out, seeing Chatham amidst the bloody mess that was his home, the rolling around the bed crying "Oh God, it hurts". . And there's the remembering.
I was sitting out on the porch smoking and watching the rain and thinking about Mothers Day. When I was pregnant with him, I was super excited anytime someone sent me a "mommy" forward. . and I couldn't wait till mothers day. So- now what am I? I mean, I was a mother, sort of. I considered myself one anyways.
I guess now I'm not a mother. How does one un-become a mother? Not physically, but otherwise. I was a mother, but now I'm not. . . Jesus.
Oh sure, now I can drink again and stuff like that. . but who cares? I complained about it while I was pregnant but the truth is I would give up alcohol forever if I could have him back.
I didn't know him, but he was part of me. It's hard to explain. I's like loosing part of yourself- but even more than that. It's like. . loosing something that's more than just you, that's more than everything good in the world.
Maybe it's because I'm still hormonal, or maybe it's because I'm a jealous bitch, but before the oneness I felt with other mothers (especially ones who were still pregnant) has now turned into this terrible hungry jealousy. It hurts so much. I know it's not- but it feels like they're rubbing it in my face. . . "Look at what I can do. . you can't do this."
And you can't forget. You just can't. The memories you have may not be of the baby's first cry, or their first laugh or tooth. . . but the ones you do have are stuck on repeat. They loop over and over again in your head reminding you of what you've lost.
When a baby arrives,
be it for a day, a month, a year or more,
or perhaps only a sweet flickering moment-
the fragile spark of a tender soul
the secret swell of a new pregnancy
the goldfish flutter known to only you-
you are unmistakeningly changed...
the tiny footprints left behind on your heart
bespeak your name as Mother.
-Kimberly de Montbrun