On some level, I believed that I could be a perfect mother.
She was just beyond my fingertips.
If I were a better parent, maybe we would be playing outside or making art or reading books.
Lisa Fotios
On some level, I believed that I could be a perfect mother.
She was just beyond my fingertips.
Dont blink, well-meaning strangers tell you at the grocery store, the bank, family parties.
Itll be over before you know it.
I would smile back, wondering, am I doing this right?
Is this what it is supposed to feel like?
When Desi turned one week, I sobbed to my husband that it was going by too fast.
This is our life now, he tried to reassure me.
We have our whole lives to love our son.
But today, I said, hormonal tears streaming down my face, Today is already almost over.
I took Desis yogurt-covered shirt and walked towards the hamper in the next room.
Ive measured it sincesix steps.
But it was too late.
Standing over the hamper, I heard the sound of liquid hitting the floor.
I pulled up the sleeve on his fleece pjsfooties covered with dogs.
Would he be too upset to wear them again?
I ran his wrist under cold water.
Maybe hes okay, I hoped as we then raced up the stairs to wake my husband.
Maybe hes just in shock.
When Desi was very little, I thought about death constantly.
Crossing the street, and Id seein a flashhim falling from my arms to the pavement below.
Walking downstairs, Id see us both careening down the stairs, me bent over his tiny broken body.
All of this felt, if not normal, then obligatory, the only way to keep him safe.
Maybe I had postpartum depression or anxiety.
But so, then, do most mothers Ive met.
New motherhood is a study in love and trauma, a minefield of fear and grief.
So we gently peeled off his pjs and diaper, and I climbed into the cool showerstill fully clothed.
We stood in the water, as I sang nonsense songs and he cried so loud the house shook.
The team of ER nurses and doctors that piled into our room.
The relief in hearing that laugh.
My husband and I, singing along through our tears.
The grace of a nurse putting her hand on my shoulder, It happens all the time.
I went upstairs to shower, to breathe.
His injury couldnt be about me; I had to be the calm center in his storm.
And now that the crisis had passed, I felt numb.
I was too sad to be embarrassed, and too tired to turn away his help.
You are safe and you are loved, I tell my son.
It is my chant through temper tantrums and long car rides and lonely nights teething.
I realize, now, that Ive also been chanting about safety and love to comfort my own fears.
At a check-up appointment, the nurse told us Desi is a good healer.
