What a crock.
Half an hour and one dress change later, with double pads this time in my nursing bra, I headed downstairs and into the kitchen to find Maggie and Emma and the scent of fresh-baked cookies in the air. Tim, one of our other librarians, must have decided to give us some privacy and work in the main part of the library, which was, if you knew him, shocking.
This library was home. I’d missed it in the past three months while on maternity leave. I hadn’t grown up in Highland Falls. Neither had Aidan, my husband, but when I first visited this public library during college, I fell in love. Two sisters had left their colonial revival home to the town a century ago, and the town turned it into the library. Newer libraries would have more modern conveniences, but I loved this space. The oak woodwork, lead glass windows, quirky rooms—it all spoke to my heart. Upon entering the library, you walked up to the circulation desk in the former foyer. The stairs took you up to our offices, the conference room, and storage. Downstairs we had kids’ books, children, and young adult to the left of the foyer; fiction and nonfiction to the right. All roads led you to the back of the house where the kitchen stood as a staff break room and a place to cook with patrons when we hosted various book clubs. They were also welcome to coffee. Several had their own special mugs they left here. Tables and comfy chairs dotted the entire place, making this everything I wanted in a library and more.
Maggie and Emma pushed a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies in my direction. I snatched one up and inhaled it.
Maggie slid a mug of coffee toward me, and I gave her an assessing glance.
“Decaf” was her response.
I reverently took a sip.
“Okay, lady, sit.” Maggie nodded to the couch in the window area of the kitchen. “You’ve been telling us everything is great. But Grace, you have a three-month-old kid and you are on day two back from maternity leave, hopping into your role as director of this library. There is no such thing as ‘great’ at this stage.”
Tears welled up again. I cursed my postpartum hormones. Could I still blame them three months out?
“I don’t want to be ungrateful,” I said in a voice I didn’t even recognize. Damn it. One year ago, I was in charge. I had been rattled, I’ll admit, that it took us more than one month to conceive, which I knew was ridiculous. I’d been—no, we’d been—naive. Aidan and I spent the first ten plus years of our marriage actively trying topreventpregnancy. We’d thought that as soon as we wanted to have a baby, it would happen. Nope. After months of trying, we sought help. The doctors assured us that we were fine and to relax and let it happen in time.
Telling someone to relax was like telling them not to worry when they were anxious.
We were, however, some of the lucky ones. I hated that other couples struggled to conceive. Ten months in, we got the long-awaited second line. My pregnancy had been relatively easy other than my husband being a nervous wreck and wanting to keep me in bed where nothing could happen to me, especially in the final months. Our labor and delivery hit a few speed bumps, and the cesarean section hadn’t been planned, but Mia was here, she was healthy, and I felt like an ass if I complained about anything.
Maggie and Emma followed me to the couch under the windows in the kitchen. I curled up in one corner while the other two faced me and seemed to consider my words.
Maggie was the first to speak, which pretty much defined her personality. “Why are you ungrateful?”
I gestured with my hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup. “You know, we were lucky enough to get pregnant, I have a healthy baby, a doting husband, blah, blah, blah.”
The two women I considered close friends blinked at me. Repeatedly.
“But Grace, just because that’s true doesn’t mean you’ve lost the right to complain about anything.” Emma looked confused.
I sat with that.
Maggie pulled out her phone. “I have an idea. I’m going to set the timer on here for two minutes. You have that time to complain about anything you want, and we swear we won’t judge you; it won’t make you a bad person, and you’ll feel better getting it out. You with me?”
“Two minutes? Sure.” No idea what that would accomplish, but I was willing to try.
“Okay, while I find the timer, do some preplanning like I tell my seventh graders. Think of what you’re going to say so you can hit the ground running and get it all out.”
I nodded, considering what I wanted, or needed, to say.
“Okay. Three, two, one—lay it on us.” Maggie hit some button on her phone.
I took a breath and then poured it all out. “I haven’t slept more than four hours in a row for three months. My boobs hurt.” Just saying that made them ache, and I fought the urge to cup each breast. “All the time. My C-section scar is ugly, and I feel like there is a shelf of belly over it that will never be remotely flat again.” I gestured in the direction of said shelf. “Mia’s poor little tummy is gassy, which makes her cry a lot. Only pressure on her stomach makes her stop crying sometimes. She needs to be touching Aidan or me at all times, which is sweet but makes me feel touched out, like I need space, which makes me feel like a bitch.”
I thought about my life before Mia and now. “I feel like I’m losing my identity. Like I was an interesting person before having a baby, but now I feel like I’m Mia’s mom first and everything else is secondary, if even considered. I never realized that nursing meant I either need to be available to feed her every few hours or pump if we aren’t together, even if it’s one of the only things I think I’m doing well. It’s like in having a baby, I lost any time for just me, which is, again, selfish. Not to mention, nursinghurtat first, like bleeding-nipples-split-in-two hurts.” My body winced on its own, remembering those first days and weeks.
I let out a deep breath and continued. “I feel like a ball of emotions that isn’t deflating. Anything and everything can set me off. The other day I cried because I thought Baxter felt neglected, which meant I was a horrible mother.” Tears streamed down as I grabbed a Kleenex and blew my nose.
I saw Maggie look toward Emma. “Baxter?”
“The corgi,” Emma replied.
Maggie raised an eyebrow at me in disbelief. “Setting aside the notion of the dog being neglected, how does that make you a horrible mom?”
“He was my first child.” I dropped my head to the back of the couch.
