My First Born

In April 2020, I was invited by my dear friend Diana to be part of a writing circle where a group of gals shared some personal stories about their lives while the pandemic unfolded. Two years later, we are still going strong, and below is my last submission to the circle. It’s a story I wrote just a few days after Poppy was born, about adjusting to life as a mom of two.

I hope you enjoy reading. With so much uncertainty in the world I hope you are taking care of yourself and are starting to feel the warmth of those early rays of Spring.

With love,

Erin

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Last night I slept through dinner and woke up feeling lethargic but a little better. By the end of the day, I need some kind of pick-me-up to make it through the long night of breastfeeding my newborn.

I stumbled downstairs and offered to give Ginny a bath while I ate Sal’s leftover pasta. I haven’t been spending much time with her since her sister Poppy was born. Fifteen minutes here, ten minutes there. Today my goal was to spend more time with Ginny since we hadn’t really bonded or connected all day.

Ginny and I went into the bathroom but she refused to take off her pajamas and I immediately turned on her. I was exhausted and became aggravated. I wasn’t in the mood to play any games, so now she was getting “mean mommy” for bathtime, which resulted in her crying for her father.

“I don’t want you to give me a bath, I want Dad to do it.”

I held her in my arms, “Can we talk about it?”

“I want Daddy!” she wailed.

“Ginny, I haven’t seen you all day, Mommy wanted to spend some time with you tonight. Is that okay? Let’s do bath time together.”

“I want Daddy!” She sobbed. Her little tears turned into a high shrill. I felt defeated. I didn’t have the energy to turn the boat around and I didn’t have the energy to fight her either.

“Ok” I said, “I’ll get him.”

Sal and I switched places in the bathroom and I went downstairs to stare out the window at the snow in the dark. Then I started to cry.

For the first time since I had given birth to Poppy not but a week earlier, I cried. But not because of the stress of the hospital, or the pain of breastfeeding, or being sleep deprived. I cried because I felt like I was letting my first born down.

I pulled out my phone and texted my mom-group thread. After a few words of solidarity I wiped my tears and took a deep breath. I tried to give myself some grace. This is a transition for us all, it’s going to take time to figure out- even the cat hasn’t left the basement in days.

As I watched the snow fall silently outside I tried to convince myself it was good Ginny was bonding so much with her dad, and that she felt comfortable enough with me to have a meltdown and show me how she really feels. I tried to tell myself she didn’t mean it, and not to take it personally but I couldn’t swallow a sugary platitude, I just had to stomach that tonight was one of those nights.

The following morning a fresh blanket of snow covered the ground and my neighbor texted about getting the girls together to play.

Ginny has been quarantining with us since before the baby was born, so I knew she’d be ecstatic to run around safely outside with friends. I was eager to get out of the house too, but when her sister woke up from a nap hungry I knew I’d be home breastfeeding for at least an hour and wouldn’t make it. Sal could take the helm of their snow playdate.

I watched them get bundled up and venture outside while the baby and I nursed quietly at home. Once Poppy was fed and finally put down for a nap Ginny and Sal came barreling through the door. Ginny’s cheeks were rosy red and they were both covered in snow.

All of a sudden Ginny started to cry, “I’m cold,” she said. Her hands and feet were freezing, her socks and pants soaked wet.

I offered to take her in the shower to warm up but she just started to melt down. Sal spied the baby asleep on the couch and began to panic. I picked Ginny up and we took off her wet clothes and put her in a fleece blanket.

After trying to negotiate with her on the benefits of putting on a sweater the tears kept coming, “I only want to wear a blanket!” she cried.

I directed Sal to the kitchen, “Grab a pouch,” I said. “She’s hungry.”

She sat bundled on our green velvet couch crying and refusing to put on another article of clothing, so I snuggled her in the fleece blanket and she devoured a breakfast bar and a pouch. She was starting to calm down but just in case I asked Sal to bring the baby upstairs to finish her nap.

To keep Ginny grounded while she oscillated between tears of exhaustion and hunger I started asking her questions about the playdate. Distracted, she stopped crying to answer.

After she was full I negotiated getting her to put on her socks and a warm sweater. Sal and I got her dressed and then her and I sat down to play with some Kinetic sand she got for her birthday. At her little wood table in the dining room she started making pretend cupcakes and stamping hot pink sand with plastic cookie cutters. Her spirits were lifted, her belly was full, and her feet were covered with socks. We were out of the woods.

Sal started to make lunch in the kitchen and I told him, “if she’s ever level 10 nuclear you just have to feed her. She can’t function if she’s hungry, it's the only thing that really sets her off like that.” He nodded.

A small wave of satisfaction spilled over me from the ability to be able to read my child's mind. To understand intimately her behavior, her silent cues, and what she wants before she can articulate that she wants it.

No one can read her like I do because no one knows her like I do. After spending almost every day for three years together, I recognize that as her primary caregiver even though some days I get her at her worst, I also have the privilege of getting her at her best.

Whether she cries for her Dad during bathtime or not, I’m still her mother. She’ll always be my baby, my little Mini, and my first born.