Fly: A Memoir

Excerpt:

I sigh and sink back into the waiting room chair. The fluorescent lights are really bright. They show every little bit of grime and guck on my already-worn bucket car seat. When you spend months in the mountains, and your husband seems to seldom wash his hands, things are bound to get grimy. But under these florescent lights, the car seat looks filthy. My little squirming four-month-old looks up at me and the movements around her. She doesn't care if the car seat is dirty. And as much as she doesn't like being in it, she's not crying at the moment.

But I am. On the inside. I'm trying not to. A myriad of emotions ping-pong in my tensed-up chest: anger, sadness, apprehension, disappointment with myself over a stupid hunk of dirty plastic.

I just finished the first steps of my primary care clinic visit. I unbundled my baby, stripped her down to the diaper with my cold hands, debated whether to leave her clothes on the table or throw them in the bucket seat so others could use the surface, placed her on the scale to be weighed, sat her up to have her head measured, laid her down, and held her down to find out her height.

Measures. I've lived and breathed these things. Markers to know where one stands. Benchmarks to show how one is doing, underperforming, adequately performing, or proficiently performing….. All the way to performing perfectly, although I'd sure like to know what THAT number is. All with their standard deviations and their reliability at capturing data, at predicting things, at suggesting ways to do, to be, better. Why get 90% when you can get 95%? Why 95% when 100% is in sight? Why 100% when there are bonus points to get you beyond?

I understand the health care professionals measuring numbers, but I felt like they were measuring my capability as a mom, which felt very, very substandard.

"She's so tiny." The nurse said.

I looked at her, certainly with dull eyes.

She glanced at me, "But you're also tiny."

I smiled. Yes. I'm tiny. All 110 lbs, 5 foot nothing of me is keenly aware of that fact. I didn't have a growth spurt past the age of 12.

"Ok, you can get her dressed and wait in the waiting room."

I turned, baby in one arm, handle of her seat in my other hand, to await my turn at the dressing table. Don't leave the baby on the table. Get the stuff out first. People are judging. People are judging you.

People are not judging me! I yelled inside my head, Stop it! And through foggy eyes I picked up my daughter's clothes as she wiggled and began crying in my other arm.

I understood two things from a very young age. One: there was always a right way to do something. Two: if you didn't do things right, beware of the lurking disapproval. A look, a comment, it didn't matter what form it took. I didn't avoid punishment nor doing things I shouldn't do, but the general, everyday disapproval over small non-measuring-ups? I read it into situations where it wasn't even there. It could always be there, sneaking, awaiting its time to ambush. And so, I learned to aim for excellence as much as possible in everything. But I kept coming up proficient. That is, less than excellent. The one hundred percent was never enough, regardless of whether or not there were bonus points. There would always be another test.

But I also learned, from a young age, that everyone generally is only thinking about themselves. So no one in my grade 4 class was actually judging that I didn't have the best plastic food toys in my reenactment of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. On reflection, I was likely the only one noticing that Addie Brewinski did. No one cared in grade 3 that I spelled laugh "laff" even though I knew it was wrong and that I got 3 words out of, like, 50 wrong that day. But I felt it. I felt the eyes; I felt the badness of mistakes even where mistakes weren't truly made. I felt the space between where I was and where I could be. Where I should be. If only I had……

Studied harder or longer.

Figured it out earlier.

Communicated better.

Noticed that detail.

If only I knew how to take care of a baby.

I have a baby. I should be able to take care of her.

I tried to lay down a blanket first, someone's voice (in my head) warned me that the surface would be cold, but it turned out I didn't have enough hands. So I skipped that part. I dressed my baby, undressed her to change the diaper she pooped in, dressed her again, and placed the diaper in the garbage. Then I debated if it was better to leave her on the obviously safe change table with the 2.5" lip around the edge and wash my hands or pile all my stuff on the table, put her in the seat, and then wash my hands. There were so many posters on the wall about safety, not leaving babies on the table, and protocol for hand-washing; NONE of them seemed applicable to my juggling situation. Details. Rules and details. No matter how I went about it, I couldn't get it right.

I couldn't get it right.

But I finally managed, excused myself from the space, and found a chair in the waiting room.

Now I'm seated, but what I really want to do, yet again, is crawl under the covers of a very weighted blanket in a quiet house. I don't want to be here. I don't want to notice the dirty car seat. I can't not notice it. Why didn't I see it earlier? Why didn't I clean it? My soul sinks lower.

More than that, I don't want to notice the couples around me. Every other baby in the room is accompanied by two parents. Even the other white baby has two adult attendants.

And this hurts. Where the dirtiness and difficulty following guidelines elicit embarrassment, those eyes will be left behind when I leave. My aloneness, however, cannot. How is it that the usual standard of care is that two parents are here, learning, and navigating this stupid post-baby world, together? Both receiving information? One to hold the baby while the other places the blanket? Obviously, I'm strong enough to do this alone since I am doing this alone. Peter believes I can do this on my own, and here I am, proving that to be true. But perhaps I'm not valuable enough to warrant a partner coming alongside? I didn't communicate my need clearly enough? His time working is more important than the time learning how to raise a child and get her vaccinated? I don't know which is more challenging: the thought of having Peter here and, therefore, an increased sense of scrutiny because he most likely would not do things according to the socially accepted norms of the place? Or me navigating this world all by my lonesome self. I do know I now have a deeper pang of hurt under my embarrassment.

"Ayden?" the nurse calls.

I stand, pick up the car seat, and smile in her direction to let her know I'm coming.

"This way." She says, holding the door open for me.

She leads me to a small room, the wall lined with pamphlets. We sit. She asks me questions about Ayden's weight, height, eating habits, vitamin D intake, if she's rolling or sitting up, making the appropriate noises, and what toys she likes to play with.

"If you can get a bit more consistency in her vitamin D intake, it would be ideal." She says.

Yeah. I know, just like if I flossed between going to the dentist, it would be ideal.

I am grateful for these questions. I understand their importance. The nurse is gracious and kind and does not seem to want to lambast me for my shortcomings. That helps lessen the feeling that I'm being graded and will be found short of excellent. She preps the vaccinations.

"You're a little late for this second vaccination round." She observes.

There it is. Her kind intonation can't keep that from piercing me.

"Yes, I know. I've been out of the city all summer and was late on the first one." I surprisingly recognize that I justified it when justification wasn't necessary.

"Undress her down to her onesie." She responds.

A onesie? I didn't put a onesie on her. Was I supposed to put a onesie on under her sleeper? I didn't think it was that cold outside.

Is this a result of my compromise with Peter? Where he thinks babies should experience cold so they get used to it and I want to bundle them up?

"I didn't put a onesie on her today." I say. That's right, I own this one. No justification.

And yet, the second arrow hit me just the same.

The two unintentional stabs elicit a bubbling wail inside: how the hell is a new mom supposed to keep track of all this?! Check-ups, vaccinations, "proper" clothing, every hiccup and red bump that shows up out of place, the rashes and cradle cap signifying that you're doing something "wrong," mastering when feeding happens, what kind of poops are coming out and how frequently, whether there's a clean onesie or sleeper, and if you need to buy more diapers? Never mind how I'm navigating a whole other set of standards in my personal relationship? "Common sense" isn't as common as people think it is. There's zilch common in the rationale of Peter and me.

But not a peep exits my mouth.

She guides me in how to hold my baby. I turn Ayden to sit sideways, one arm behind me, the other grasped by me, immovable for the needle. The nurse sticks Ayden's upper arm. My baby wails. I let out a few tears, relieved to have an appropriate moment to fake why I'm crying. I shift, pull up my shirt, and guide Ayden to my breast for relief.

"How are you doing?" the nurse asks gently. I can feel her pause her activity and focus her eyes on me.

"Me?" I say.

"Yes. Are you sleeping?"

"Yes, as much as I can."

"How are you feeling these days?"

I look at her with a tilted head. I don't understand the question.

I actually don't have a fucking clear clue how I'm feeling.

Not enough anyway to verbally articulate. I'm a mess. This nurse doesn't have time to listen to me fall entirely apart on her. But also, I seriously have nothing to complain about. I have a healthy baby, a working partner, a house, food, and and abundance of white security.

"I'm ok. Tired. Weary. But managing."

"Do you have enough support?"

I have people. So many people. Too many people? But I don't really need them. It's more effort to ask and coordinate and worry about how they're doing than the help that might come if I ask. Sometimes when I ask for help, people ask me specifically how to do things, and I just don't have the brainpower to string words together to coach them through doing a task. Or debate the merits of what I'd like help with when it seems trivial.

Nor do I have the energy to grapple with the standards of behaviour I feel expected of me while they're at my house helping me.

So far, my effort has outweighed the help, so I stopped asking.

"I think so. I have lots of people I can ask for help."

I'm more confused than anything. Why do I feel like shit when I have everything a postpartum person could need? I have people. I don't think my standards are too high? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

"Here are some numbers if you think, at all, that you ever need mental health support." She says and hands me a piece of paper with resources on it - I see many of the same resources I used to hand out to women at the domestic violence shelter. A list of people who can help, but you must ask for help first. How can you ask for help when asking, in and of itself, is an admittance that you're doing things not good enough? And because you're not doing the things good enough, you're not enough? You're deficient? Defective? You need someone else to fix you.

And then the thought whispers: If you were actually valuable, wouldn't someone see that, hear that, understand, and step in and help in a helpful way to you?

She circles the numbers of emergency psychological support. I nod to acknowledge I've heard her.

I already know my guard is too high. I doubt I'll call. Surely I can figure it out. I'm smart. I won't be able to keep track of this paper anyway. Other people need this help more than me.

I adjust my clothes back together. Turn to burp the baby while we continue chatting. I don't know if four-month-olds need to be burped, but I finally figured out a reasonable theory as to why she's so gassy. My milk comes out so fast she's gulping in air as she nurses. So I have to spend extra time burping her to get the air bubbles back out before they head further down and cause her pain. But also, my shaking hands need something to do.

She then talks through the next set of developmental milestones and chats about introducing solid foods: when, how, and what to avoid. I receive pamphlet after pamphlet of things to do, things not to do, what to expect, and how to navigate the baby's world at the level that they're at. Watch for this, encourage this by doing this, continue with vitamin D, introduce these foods in this way, here's a chart to keep track, and do more tummy time to encourage baby to crawl. Remember to read mind-numbing books enthusiastically and point out the colors and pictures.

And now I've scooped everything up, pamphlets, growth charts, baby, myself, my coat, and she sympathetically offers to carry the car seat. She leads me back to the waiting room, opens the door, and places the seat near an empty chair where I'm to wait the last few minutes to ensure there's no reaction to the vaccine.

"Thank you," I say.

"Take care," she urges softly. I feel like she means it. She closes the door behind her.

And I'm left to myself and my baby once again in the waiting room. And I now realize I have to urgently pee. I've always had to go pee in moments of tension. I'm holding everything together so steadfastly that my brain thinks my bladder is full.

But peeing in a public place with a baby is a hurdle. I know I'll handle it, I always do, but it is another obstacle in today's endeavour.

So I hold it together and get into the bathroom. Hold it together, don't sit on the seat. Hold it together and pee. Hold it together, don't think about your baby carrier being on the floor in a public washroom. Hold it together, and dry your hands on your pants instead of using the very loud dryer, so your baby doesn't start crying.

Hold it together; hurry up, though, because you know a moment of relief is coming, and you're about to burst. Hold it together and buckle baby in, buckle yourself in, blink back tears, reverse out of the stall, turn onto the road, and drive to where no one can see you. And... Now. Now is the time to cry.

But no tears come.