Read Me, please.
“Let me take the stroller for you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daryle move between me and the bundled and bassinetted Hero. I had been bent over the passenger seat of my car, eyeing the contents of the diaper bag, muttering. “Onesies, butt wipes, dirty bag…”
“NO!” I surprised myself as I leaped in front of her. She’d been pushing the stroller with the brake still on, so she hadn’t gotten very far. I squeaked out an laugh, realizing in the moment how ridiculous I was acting. I tried to downplay.
“It’s my first time going anywhere with him alone in the car. I’d like to make sure I do everything right.”My best friend smiled gently and patted my shoulder. “Okay, Peachey.” I released the stroller brake and followed Daryle up the path to the garden entrance of her Wallingford loft apartment. To my credit, I did let her carry the diaper bag.
Hero was six weeks old, and my postpartum life was sifting into a somewhat recognizable routine. My Sweetie the Chef would leave for work at 8am, and I’d handle the first and second nap of the day. Then, I’d venture out into the Seattle late spring, usually to stroll Mount Baker Park, for his third nap, back home for his fourth and then Christian would be home in time to help with the baby bedtime routine.
Today, I had decided the “out” part of the day would take us across town to Auntie Daryle.
“I’m so excited for you to meet my friend Anne! She’s finally able to visit her son, who studied design at UW. You remember me telling you about Anne, of course…”
I didn’t remember Anne. I was remembering the Covid shuffle, which was: to mask, or not? Do I ask about vaccinations, or not? This was not only my first visit with the baby, it was my official “Hug Date” after receiving my second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. As per the May 2021 guidelines, I was safe to chill, unmasked, with other vaccinated friends.
“It’s Opal! And her baby!”
“Uhhhhhkkk!!!”
Two angelic children peered at my from the open doorway Daryle shares with her neighbors. Attila was sporting a tiny animal mask, obviously homemade, and Olek, who was 14 months, was newly walking on his still fat baby feet.
I first met Attila as a newborn wail from the other side of the wall as Daryle and I listened to Michael Jackson and popped our second bottle of bubbly for the evening’s hangout. And I had cuddled baby Olek when he was firstborn, against my pregnant belly.
Now they both looked so…mature! Olek toddled past me wearing a seemingly giant version of Hero’s cloth diaper covers. He was intent on picking up and handing me the small rocks that resided in the patio potted plants. Attila beelined for me and Hero.
“You can touch his little hand, if you want. See how his fingers are like a lizard?”
“Don’t touch the baby.” Michelle glided out of her apartment, deftly scooping up her toddler and picking up four errant toys at the same time. I caught my breath. The boys’ mother had always been soft-spoken and elegant, but never had I felt her true power.
I shrugged at Attila. Of course he shouldn’t touch Hero. What kind of a mother was I?!
Hero’s coos turn to fussing, and I hoisted his carseat on my hip and entered Daryle’s loft.
The focal point of Daryle’s home is a large projection screen. She’s a film maker, and video game designer and a dedicated hedonist. When the screen is pulled up, which it is today, a monochromatic art piece is revealed, a pictogram of an eyeball, a can of soup + t, a bear and a pocket watch.
I can’t bear to watch. I slip my mask under my chin and smile cautiously at Anne. She’s sitting cross legged between Daryle’s coffee table and the white leather couch. It seems like yesterday and a million years ago since I sat in the same spot, using a bobby pin as a roach clip watching Frances Ha for the third time.
“Look at him! Six weeks old! How are you doing, Mama?”
Anne’s smile when I lift Hero from his seat says everything. We are instantly bonded. It’s something I’ve noticed as a new mother. Women who are child free ask about the baby. Mothers, they ask about me.
“I’ve been doing a lot of reading while he naps on me. Thank god for my Kindle! I’ve read a different parenting book each week.”We talked a little more about her visit, I ask about her son, she tells me he’s twenty-three and the pandemic is the longest she’s every gone without seeing him. Daryle excuses herself to make a phone call, and Anne smiles while I change Hero’s diaper.
“May I give you some advice?”
Her warm Texan accent disarms the loaded question. Besides, I’m so freshly a mom. No one has yet given me any advice! I am thirsty for it.
“I’m sure the books are great. But when it comes to the important decisions you’ll make, trust your gut. You know what’s best for your baby.”
Did I even have a gut before my baby? Before this moment, this kind and gentle instruction from a more experienced mother? I don’t think I was really aware of the intuition that attaches me to my son.
Since then, I’ve been keenly attuned to the difference between knowing a fact and knowing what is right for Hero. And I’ve gone back to enjoying juicy novels rather than parenting books. Which I highly recommend.
Parenting Books that Spoke to my Gut
Ina May’s Guide to Breastfeeding
How to Talk so Little Kids will Listen
Juicy Novels
The Bestseller *caveat, just AWFUL ‘90s badness. Couldn’t put it down.
The Nightingale *caveat, a tough read as a new mom. I didn’t realize how I would respond to stories about children that go badly. Still, worth it, so good!