Torn
By Jenn Norrell
@jenn.norrell
“Idgie, stop!” I yell. “You need to listen. If you can’t listen we aren’t going to be able to keep this puppy.” These words have come out of my mouth more times than I care to admit over the last few weeks.
I’ve been trying to make my daughter and me lunch for what feels like an hour.
Cut up carrots, stop to keep the puppy from chewing the cabinet. Saute broccoli, remove puppy’s mouth from Idgie’s ankle. Cook rice, take puppy out to go to the bathroom.
He lay down, content for once, when Idgie walked by and pet him. What kind of mother yells at her child for petting her puppy? For showing love? For being kind? Now he is up jumping and biting at her. “Walk away, turn your back, be firm.” I say. She moves to her room to escape his tiny shark teeth, and he turns to biting my bare feet.
You wouldn’t think such a fluffy cute thing could cause so much pain.
My husband and I are dog people. We’ve grown up with them and have each had dogs throughout our adult lives. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a puppy, and well, I forgot just how much work they are.
That’s a lie.
I remembered. I even tried to talk us out of the idea, but I told myself that I was a mother now, a puppy should be easy. Plus, we got the puppy for my daughter Idgie, who is five. She really wanted a puppy, and a baby. The puppy I could make happen.The baby, well, I’m torn.
***
It was never my intention to have only one child. I grew up with three siblings. I spent high school and college working in preschools. Child and adolescent social work was my jam. I love kids. I never thought I'd have four. Maybe two. Two seemed right. Then I had my daughter, and well, let's just call my introduction to motherhood rough. My body was cut and stretched open, fear of loss before my daughter was even birthed into this world, and then days, weeks, months in a fog of mixed and overwhelming feelings I couldn’t seem to escape.
I didn't have it in me to even begin to consider another until Idgie was well past two. By then it had already been more than a year since we picked up our lives and moved into an RV to travel full-time. We were “living our dream,” and I finally felt like I found my way through the fog. I discovered this new version of myself. I wasn’t ready to give that up.
***
“Hey Mama, I’m ready” Idgie informs me from the dinette in our Airstream.
“Okay, one second kiddo,” I say while measuring out our puppy’s food. “Let me just get Bridger his lunch, and then hopefully he will take a nap.” As I scoop it into the bowl he hops around at my feet trying his best to sit still until I put the bowl on the floor, and then devours it in a matter of seconds.
“I have the paintbrushes, Mama, but I forgot to get a paper towel for blotting. I think I have everything else.” I grab a paper towel and settle in next to Idgie on the dinette to work on a nature study lesson. Bridger fluffs his dog bed and lays down with a bone inches from my feet.
“What kind of plants do you want to learn about today? Saguaros or Ocotillos?” I ask, but before Idgie could begin to answer I spot Bridger pulling the rug out from under the bathroom door.
“Leave it, leave it Bridger.” I am up out of my seat taking the bathroom rug out of the dog’s mouth. I fold it, put it in the far corner of our tiny bathroom, and close the door hoping it’s out of reach.
“Okay” I sigh,” Sorry. Which one did you pick?”
“Ocotillos,” she says. I pull up some pictures of Ocotillos that she took on my phone during our walk that morning and find the page for Ocotillos in our book.
“I wish we could do it outside like we normally do, and not have to use pictures.” Idgie says as she moves the phone closer to her for a better look.
“Me too, love. Once Bridger is older that will be easier to do because we will be able to leave him longer, or maybe he will even be happy to join us.”
Idgie smiles, picks up a paintbrush, dips it in water and then the light brown paint.
“Imagine you are on the bottom of the ocean. The desert wind is the current and the oc...” I begin to read, and then I hear a scraping sound that doesn’t sound like a bone and pause to look under the table. “Bridger. Leave it.” I command trading him a purple raccoon chew toy for the edge of our dinette.
“And the ocotillos are those spindly sticks swaying, thin tentacles reaching toward surface and sky.” I continue.
“Mama, Bridger’s peeing. No, Bridger, No.” Idgie shouts using a firm, almost angry voice I don’t recognize.
I jump up and get the Bridger’s leash. “Idgie can you start cleaning it up while I take him out? Please.”
“Okay,” she groans, putting down her paintbrush.
“Thanks, kiddo. It might take a while but we will finish our nature study. I promise.” I walk out the door with the dog, leaving my daughter behind to clean his mess.
***
As we traveled this country and others, time did too. Then, two years ago, when Idgie was three, we slowed down. We bought a small cabin in Western North Carolina with two bedrooms and a front porch surrounded by bright green leaves, loblolly pines and pileated woodpeckers that sounded like monkeys in a jungle. If we were going to have another child it was time, and then it wasn’t. As we started trying, I discovered I had a polyp in my uterus, I needed to have surgery. And then we needed to wait.
***
Two nights ago, Idgie wrote me a letter on a bright pink piece of origami paper. I stood in front of the sink washing the dishes from dinner, Bridger at my feet tugging on my favorite slippers, when she appeared next to me.
“Mama, can I read you a letter I wrote?”
“Sure, kiddo. Who is it to?”
“You, silly.” She smiles.
“Okay, let’s hear it.” I dry my hands and turn to face her.
“Dear Mama, I miss our quiet days of homeschooling together before we got Bridger. I wish we could have a real quiet time together again and cuddle and read books. I will be so happy when I have that again and this puppy isn’t so much work. Love, Idgie.”
Then she “read” it to my husband, this letter of scribbles standing in for words that she felt so deeply she recounted verbatim. His eyes met mine as she shared her heart. I raised my eyebrows and bit my lip hoping he would hear “see I don’t know if a sibling would be good for her. She can’t even handle a dog.”
The truth is, I don’t know if I can handle her having a sibling, if I can give more to someone else. I can’t even handle the addition of a dog, let alone a baby. And I don’t know if I want to.
***
While I waited to heal from my surgery, I began to have dreams, nightmares really, of being taken away from my family, of dying, of not being able to see Idgie grow up. I tried my best to ignore them. Because I wasn’t supposed to have an only, because my husband wanted number two, because Idgie so desperately wanted a sibling. But I couldn’t. The negative thoughts and nightmares continued. When we began trying again, I found myself feeling relieved when Adam had the stomach virus when I was ovulating, or the pregnancy test came back negative. I felt the universe telling me, “Don't push your luck.” I wanted to listen.
***
Wolf-Mother, where ya been?,
You look so worn, so thin.
Idgie belts out the lyrics, swaying, eyes closed, the finale to her tea party she put together for her friends. Their mom, Erica, looks at me and smiles.
“This is her latest favorite song,” I say. “It’s from her Wolf Moon playlist.”
“Oh Jenn, I can just imagine your days together, just you and Idgie. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if it was just me and Amelia. I love my family, but gosh, it’s like a circus most days.” She glances down at her fourth little one strapped to her chest.
“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like with more than one.” I reply and I mean it.
I wonder if I could handle it. I wonder if it makes me selfish or weak if I don’t want it. I wonder if something is wrong with me because most days I don’t. Most days, I am content with only one.
Later, I look around at the chaos of our tiny space, coconut cream from the fruit tarts smeared on the dinette cushions, crumbs on the floor, every toy we own out—the aftermath of her family, full of life but also full of mess. I take in the quiet, close my eyes and feel relief that this is not my every day, but this feeling is immediately followed by guilt and sadness. This is common for me. This swing of emotions when around other families who don’t have onlys. A tearing of my soul. A pull towards something I don’t feel the need for until I see what my daughter is missing, until I see the sadness on her face when she goes home alone.
After I make dinner that night, and Idgie and our puppy are in bed, I sit at our dinette with my crochet. I am making a blanket for my sister who is pregnant with her first. So many babies surround me lately, babies of friends, of cousins, of sisters. As I tear out a row of yarn to fix a mistake, I think about holding Erica’s youngest today. My body naturally bent to make room for him on my lap and hip. Then I realize when I held Idgie at that age I didn’t know it was the last time I would hold one of my own. I feel a wave of something I can’t fully describe. It’s not sadness or regret like I might expect. If I was feeling brave enough I might call it contentment. I hope someday I will.
Guest essay written by Jenn Norrell. Jenn lives & travels full-time in an Airstream travel trailer with her daughter and husband. When she's not homeschooling or out exploring a new place, you can find her with a cup of tea in hand while reading, baking, or rediscovering her creativity through writing. She has a love/hate relationship with Instagram and occasionally writes on her blog.