The Show Mama
“I love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” I murmur sing the lullaby as I press my belly into the side of the crib to lift my whimpering son without waking him further. It’s been ten weeks and three days since his birth at 5:42am and here we are, same time, same Opal and Hero, but in a whole new world.
“Nyuhgahhh…wah!!” His arms flail, he’s busted out of his swaddle and the new power of his punching fists is my guess as to what woke him. I marvel at his strength despite the wave of frustration that fills my throat. As I lift him, his arms make their way around my neck and the hot anxiety dissolves into a surge of love so strong I know we’re both going to be okay.
This is wake number five since 10pm, but the grey light peeking through his nursery blinds tells me it’s officially morning. Today marks my first performance since his birth, and since my vaccination against Covid-19. It’s a big day but as of now, I’m wondering how in the hell we’re going to pull it off.
9:30pm the night before
“Is this normal?” my Sweetie is fiddling with the heating vents in our 2015 Rav-4 as we cross the ship canal bridge. Hot wind blows in our faces, even though it’s an unseasonably warm May night for Seattle, in the seventies. My teeth are chattering so loud I’m wondering if it will wake Hero. Not likely, Christian and I had laughed as we strapped him into his car seat, his nightgown pulled up so we could get to his little legs, limp with sleep. I sip air and focus on the pain radiating from the hardening milk duct in my right breast.
“Fever is a symptom. Thank god for my Mommy group, otherwise I’d be scared. Two other women have had mastitis already.”
“Should I take the night feedings so you can rest?”
“I only pulled milk for one bottle, you could take the first one? But if he sleeps longer I’ll have to pump anyway so I might as well nurse. And you have work tomorrow.”
“My Heart, you have a SHOW tomorrow.”
We pull into the parking space behind our apartment building. I go up first, with diaper bag and leftovers from the day spent with Christian’s family, visiting Seattle from North Carolina. Each strained step brings me closer to soaking Hero’s sore food source in the tub and then collapsing into bed.
After putting our sweet boy in his nursery crib, Christian is parked on the couch with the monitor, warmed bottle, and America’s Test Kitchen on low volume. I play a meditation for sleep off of the Yoga Glo app on my phone and run the bath water, knocking down the anxious thoughts like whack-a-mole. Will my breast become infected? Will I be able to feed him? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
Notice there is no stress about my upcoming performance. I have found this to be the happy side-effect of new motherhood plus my artistic career. Stage fright ain’t got nothing on mommy guilt.
This concert is perfect, actually. I’m the guest singer, with four songs in the line-up. There’s one Nancy Sinatra cover, but the rest are originals that have all been performed before, crowd pleasers. It’s an outdoor venue, which appeases the current guidelines that mandate no singing in enclosed spaces for fear of spreading the virus, even if you are vaccinated. Which I am, but that security is all so recent, as newborn as my Hero.
It’s a sold out show, but tickets didn’t sell till the very last minute. Was it because of pandemic fears, or the weather forecast? In Seattle, it’s a solid bet both! The producer, my longtime performing partner, Mark Siano, was willing to risk it for the chance to get back in business after this devastating year.
6 months earlier
“I have to admit, I’m scared you’ll change. I’ve seen it happen before.”
Mark is sitting on my piano bench, holding the photo of our 2nd ultrasound. You can already see that Hero has my nose. I’ve just told him I’ve got big news, and right away he quips “You’re getting married, or pregnant or both.” He does the pandemic elbow tap in lieu of a hug, and does seem genuinely excited for Christian and I. But, as partners in show who’ve planned tours and raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay our artists and make award winning cabarets, I’d rather cut to the chase and get talking about the real thoughts that come up when a performing artist says she’s going to become a mother.
Will she be able to commit to night rehearsals? Will she put effort into the social networking required? Will she keep it tight?
“I’m still me, Mark. You know me. So, let’s keep up the work.”
I’m hoping to god Past Peachey is right when Mark calls me up and, in a haze of sleep deprivation I pencil the May concert dates into my calendar and move the sequined costume dresses out from the back of the closet.
6:00am, day of the show
“Gloog!”
I grin down at my baby. He is impossibly cute in his transitional swaddle. At two months old and around 15 pounds Hero is inching his way out of the newborn sausage casing wrapper and into this big boy nightgown that covers his hands but lets his elbows free, like a cartoon chick. He still hasn’t quite figured out his hands while sleeping, and this keeps him from scratching his face and waking himself up while he tries to self-sooth by sucking his fingers.
*Are you, or a friend, expecting? Add this item to the registry. None of these were on any of the Top 10 lists that I saw. And – believe me, when you start obsessing about infant sleep you’ll be suddenly surrounded by five different brands of $20-$60 nighties that are NOT getting you laid. Actually, I take that back. The better your baby sleeps, the more sex you will have. Design a swaddle, Victoria Secret.
“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” I switch my lullaby to tried and true Disney and pet his head, willing his eyes to close from the touch to his eyebrows, a hack I learned surfing the mommy blogs on Instagram during the precious few moments to myself.
If you’ve read my birthing story you know I had a damn near perfect pregnancy and a birth experience that felt successful in many ways.
But since he’s been born I feel like those anxious thoughts that were suspiciously absent the past nine months have all ganged up to nibble on this new Mama, like so many invisible germs:
There’s the pink crawly one that surrounds my nipples – is he getting enough? Why didn’t I read the back of my vitamin bottles before nursing?! Why is my left breast so lazy? WHERE IS THE LET DOWN?
The slowly growing black spot of resentment – Why am I working so hard? Why can’t I just go with the flow? Why do I do everything wrong the first time?
And the sparkly one, inhaled and exhaled with every breath –What if I can’t do it? This whole Artist Mama thing?
8:30pm the night before the show
“Can you turn down the volume? At least during the fight scenes?” Christian hisses across the couch.
“Why don’t you control the remote, my Love?” I interject, an unwanted opinion, but Christian’s mother looks a little lost in the dark of the flickering screen. Hero is camped out in the bassinet his Poppie set up for him so we could hangout together as much as possible during their visit from North Carolina.
Christian grabs the controller with a huge sigh that might seem over-dramatic if you didn’t know he Chef’d a 10 hour day on three hours of sleep.
The volume on the big screen is so low we might as well move to closes captions. Hero snoozes away. When he was firstborn he would sleep anywhere through anything but at 2 months we are watching him whip his little head around when we close his closet door or lean too hard on the edge of his crib. He’s growing so fast.
I made arrangements with my best friend for Christian’s family to stay in her spacious loft while they were in town, she graciously spending the week with her mother in Redmond, so they could be close to our 2 bedroom apartment, but have their own space.
Earlier that afternoon:
“We want to fit him into our life, don’t we, not the other way around?” I step out of the loft to call Christian, fresh off of work, before our (unintended!) silent movie watching.
This was the debate – To spend time doing the things we want, versus rushing home to get our tiny son to bed in his wake window, keeping his routine. We wanted to use this last full day with his folks to the nth degree, and to take advantage of my friend’s 8 foot projection screen! So we chose to put Hero to sleep in the open studio and hope he could make it through the film for us. He did fine, despite the fight scenes. But as we all strained to hear the dialogue, my right breast started throbbing.
3:00am, day of the show
“I’m so tired! I need my mom! I’m trying to perform today and between the baby, mastitis, and in-laws in town, it’s kind of a joke.” I insert the face-palm emoji, then pause and add a squinty smiley face so my mother won’t read the text and panic.
Needing my mom feels good, is it okay to say that? As a member of the 35+ new mommy club, I did not expect to need my mother, I was in charge of myself and my life, thank you very much. But surprise, surprise, Past Peachey! Out popped my Hero and there she was, morphing from Momma to Grammie in a single bound.
Grammie packed her baby blue Prius to the brim with groceries, violently refusing our offers of payment and stayed a week after his birth to fetch my water bottle, change diapers and sing the many nursery songs in her repertoire after 12 years as a music teacher.
“I always told myself if either you or your sister had a baby, I would be there for you. I feel like I treated you girls as accessories to my ambition. So now I’m here to help.”
I sit in silence as she tells me this, newborn Hero nuzzling my breast. My mother was a single mom through most of my childhood. She is a musician, an artist mama. Like I hope to be. I will defend her choices, despite her guilt. But I am also a watchful defender of my son’s future. Will I see him the same way as she sees me?
But, I said yes to the concert gig. And here we are. Grammie driving the two hours from Shelton to babysit while I put on my makeup for the show.
1:00pm, 2 hours before the show
Concealer. Base. 3 layers of eyeshadow, brown, cream and pink. A midnight cat eye and charcoal brow. Dip the tweezers in eyelash glue and with a flick of the wrist I’m my old self again. I bring my liner, lipstick, powder and glitter in a small pouch to apply at the show. I’ll be wearing a mask, and I’ve learned this past pandemic year to be satisfied with a half face, most of the time.
“Lah! Lah lah!!”
In the bathroom, I turn up the volume of my true crime podcast and will my eyes not to water at his tears, ruining the painstakingly applied liner. “Everything will be okay” I recite, he’s in his nursery with his Grammie who loves him and I must be on time for soundcheck.
The silver sequin minidress ripples and winks as I slid it over my milk engorged breasts and corset (I’m sporting a healthy extra ten pounds of baby weight these days). It looks good. I feel good. Hero makes googly eyes at the shiny dress and gives me a toothless grin as I kiss his powder soft head goodbye. I’m glad I waited on that lipstick.
2:30pm, Saturday
“Every man is just a bump in the road or a stepping stone..” I sing full voice, using the fifteen minute commute to warm up and switch gears into performance mode. My hands in their white satin gloves are shaking with the effort it takes to focus on the present, rather than wondering how Hero will react to my absence. As I carefully accelerate up over Beacon Hill and onto Spokane street, the sun streams over the Olympics. It’s a beautiful day.
“Where you at. Green Room tent in the back” Mark’s text appears on my phone screen just as I park, marveling at the towering stage meant to mimic an outdoor church revival tent. The lot is filled with cars, turned inside out and laced with coolers and makeshift barbecue grills. Seattleites cluster in small groups, eyeing the stage where the band warms ups. I imagine for many, like myself, this is the first time to a music event since the quarantine began in 2020.
I exchange my slip-on Vans for black velvet stiletto heels and remove my mask, applying red lipstick, then a layer of ruby glitter. I look at the band, doing soundcheck on the stage. Maskless. Reminding myself that the CDC has deemed it safe to drop your mask if you are outdoors and fully vaccinated, I loop the ear straps of my black mask around my wrist and stride across the lot to the stage. Opal Peachey, performer, is back in full effect.
“This girl is leaving you behind…” I growl sing into the microphone and gyrate to the bass guitar and cow-bell. This Nancy Sinatra cover always brings a crowd to the dance floor and as the vaccines have become widespread in Washington, this concert is no exception. For the first time in over a year, I witness an audience dancing as I sing. It is a powerful feeling. Together, we are aware of what we lost in 2020. This tune from the swinging sixties resonates in a new way, for us all.
Tensing my abdomen to support my breath through the next verse, I feel the separation caused when I birthed my son. It’s not healed, and I’m thinking the space will always be there. That’s fine by me. I love anything that reminds me of what I have to come home to, after the last bars of the song come to a close.
