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The Things I Gave Her

August 24, 2016 | C+C Guest Writer

The day is done they say goodnight and somebody turns out the light.
The moon is high. The sea is deep. They rock and rock and rock to sleep.[1]

I close our last book and CoCo wraps her legs around me. She flicks the lights off, then on again. Her nose crinkles and she giggles under her pacifier. It looks silly in her mouth but preserves her babyness. That and the way she rests her head on my shoulder when the lights finally go out.

I place her in her crib and she nestles against the upper left bumper of her crib, the same spot I would place her as a newborn. I put her blanket over her, touch her back, and brush her head.

Suddenly she springs up as if she saw a spider.

“I need my sweatshirt!” She cries.

I plod down the stairs and get her sweatshirt. I slip her arms in and zip it to her chin. 

“My socks!” she yells.

Again I go downstairs, get her socks, and put them on her feet while she stands wiggling.

She lies down and holds her pacifier in her mouth and I watch her eyes close.

Then she sits up, but not as suddenly. She reaches to the other end of her crib where her stuffed animals are smooshed together in a pile. She finds four animals, taps them each on the head once, places them down, and cuddles back up at the other end of the crib, waiting for her blanket.

I lean over the crib, tippy toes skimming the floor, and kiss her head. I start to walk away and jump back for one more kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” I say as many times as I can. She giggles, I close the door, and walk down the stairs with a new weight on my shoulders.

I think of my brother at four years old, collecting leaves in the fall and crying as the wind would take them. I see him tapping walls in my mother’s arms before bed and when his medications caused his whole body to tic and tumble to the floor. I hear my parents shouting and sobbing behind closed doors.

I remember the phone call that pulled me home. I raced past my grandmother sitting uninterested on the couch and upstairs into my brother’s room. He was lying facing the wall, crying loudly. I lay next to him and wrapped my arms around him.

“Are Mom and Dad okay? Do you still love me?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes.”

And then moments later, “Are mom and dad okay? Do you still love me?”

“Yes. Yes.”

I let myself lean into the kitchen counter. The front door slams and I stand up, pour water and dry quinoa into a pot, and click the stove on.

Greg always says hello but looks beyond me—his eyes darting around the kitchen, surveying the scene. He spots the scars of messy children and a mother with only two hands. I hear him move to the dining room, pick up the mail and drop it down again, and walk loudly into the bedroom.

When he returns he is in sweatpants and has a warm smile.

“CoCo tapped four animals before bed tonight.”

He looks at me seriously and I can tell he is wondering how he should be reacting.

“It was ritualistic. Possible OCD behavior.”

“Okay.” He put down his fork, “What do we do?”

And I give him the answer he needs.

“We keep an eye on it. But there’s really nothing to do.”

I push away the image of a future conversation where I’m yelling at him between sobs, “We’re not medicating her!”

***

The next morning, I watch CoCo carefully. I observe her every move: throwing cushions on the floor and leaping from one to the next, building with blocks and screaming when they topple, arranging her animals to watch her dance recital complete with crown, tutu, and wand.

I remember that woman in Central Park with the shiny hair parted down the middle.

“She won’t nap!” I say on my tenth lap of the pond.

“Small kids, small problems. Big kids, big problems.” She says.

I felt like rolling my eyes but instead smiled and exhaled and she was gone.

Those words feel heavy today and I long for that day of pushing my stroller around the pond littered with tiny, white sailboats.

CoCo has an angelic face. It is soft and round, puckered, rosy, doll lips, a button nose, big, round eyes that are green with a ring of blue. Her dark hair parts to the side and make the blue in her eyes glow. Her soft curls frame her face and bounce just under her ears. 

When she was born I touched her lips with my pinky.

“She has a top lip!” I laughed. It was the most perfect mouth I had ever seen. And I was so thrilled I didn’t give her my mouth, that top line of flesh where a lip should be. 

When I walked around New York City with her in the Baby Bjorn that little, serious face seemed to take even a stranger’s breath away. Today I look at her and admire the beauty I created and think about what else I’ve given her. The things I don’t want her to have. I think of the time around her second birthday when she started to blink. Or six months later when she started to take big deep breaths every few seconds. Both behaviors disappeared but they stay sewn into my thoughts. Every so often I find myself waiting for them to reappear.

I used to tic when I was little. I stiffened my neck, shrugged my shoulders, flared my nostrils, stretched my fingers, twitched my nose, rolled my eyes. I suppose I learned to suppress them on my own, but if I think about it today, they all come back.

I don’t want her to have these ugly things from me or these scary things from my brother.

Tonight as I place her in her crib I remember rocking her to sleep, her tiny body swaddled tightly, her pacifier taking up most of her face, like a little glowworm, the kind I slept with as a child, a safe glow at my side.

She lies down on her tummy and doesn’t tap any animals. I cover her with her blanket, offering her all of the warmth and safety I have. As I walk away she yells, “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!.” One last kiss and the door closes.


Guest post written by Kim LiCalzi. Kim lives on Long Island with her husband and two daughters. She teaches first grade, runs very early, writes very late, and empowers her sweet and fierce little girls. 

[1] The Going to Bed Book by Sandra Boynto

P.s. This week on our podcast we're chatting with Heather Avis about adoption, how parents can teach their kids to be inclusive of children who may look or act different, and why raising a child with special needs is the ultimate honor. Listen here. 

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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile

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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
Her feet pitter patter across the tile floor as our daughter races toward the door. “Da! Da! Da!”
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I smile and stir the stew on the stovetop. The kitchen is warm, filled with the aroma of browned beef and stewed tomatoes. Glancing out the window, I’m surprised to find it’s still light outside--he hasn’t been home before dark in weeks.
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His truck shuts off, the dog kennel door clangs, and finally, his boots clomp across the porch.
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“Dad!” our son shouts as the front door squeaks open. “I want to show you something!”
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I hear him whispering to our girl in the entry. I add frozen peas to the bubbling pot on the stove.
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“Daddy, want to play play-doh with me?” our son asks.
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His hands are cracked and calloused, his sweatshirt dirty and faded. There’s mud on his pant leg and gray in his beard. His eyes are tired, but he puts our daughter on one knee, our son on the other, and scoops up a ball of play-doh without hesitation.
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He’s wearing the same black wool vest he wore on our wedding day six years ago. It’s faded to gray and it’s missing a couple of buttons. If you look closely at the seam you can see blue thread where I mended it last winter.
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That vest is a little like us.
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We’ve been torn apart by our egos and months-long unemployment, by our son’s undiagnosed cleft lip, and the feeding tube required to keep our daughter alive. We lost a button when the medical bills piled up, and another when we bought our fixer-upper.
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But we mended those places; our seams sewn back together with time and apologies and dedication.
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The way we love each other doesn't look how it used to, doesn’t feel the way it used to, either.
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Our love is no longer new and crisp. It’s worn and tested, like that faded old vest.
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And tonight, with soup on the stove and two babies on his lap, I can’t help but notice how good he looks in gray.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @carastolen
On a whim, I book a nursing photography session. It’s fall, and I buy new clothes for the session because that’s what you do in the fall. Time seems to be slipping from us as I move on autopilot, and years later, I can’t tell you how we spent our days. I only recall all the crying in the middle of the night, my hands that shook all the time, and how scared I was of what was happening, and what was to come. Then, what races through my head on repeat: I am a woman who gets left, a woman whose husband is sleeping with someone else, a woman who can’t even convince the father of her children to call them regularly. There is nothing worthy about me. "Put your fat stomach away. It’s ugly." Everything about my sons is magnificent and as much of a failure as I am, I am the only person they have to take care of them. That fact holds me hostage more than the voice in my head—"I don’t want to ever see that again. Do you understand?"—otherwise, I would never get out of bed.
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When the photos from the nursing session land in my inbox, it’s not the fading sun embracing us or the brilliant framing that catches my attention. It’s the way my baby is reaching for my face as he nurses, his eyes locked on mine, so it seems we are almost the same person still. My shirt is pushed down around my breast; you can hardly tell we are nursing: we could be just another baby and mama pair captivated by one another. My breath catches as I realize, he loves me. I don’t know what my baby sees in me, and over the next few days I become obsessed with flipping through the photos and trying to understand: What have I missed about myself, the person who doesn’t deserve to be loved?
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// From "Putting Fat Stomachs in Their Place" by guest writer @lacianne.schmidt, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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