Column: Savagemama

This Mama Has Come Undone

By Jennifer Savage, 6-13-08

	Jennifer and Eliza

When I was pregnant with Eliza I couldn’t write a word. I could barely manage more than a few-sentence email. I thought if I started typing, I might never stop. This last month I’ve been feeling the same way with this pregnancy. One word and I keep thinking the dam holding back a tsunami of emotion will break, the stitching holding me together will come unraveled. 

If I start to type I’d have to tell you all about the crazy thoughts that lead me through my days. I’d have to tell you that I’m scared to death something will go wrong with the birth, that something will happen to the baby. I’d have to tell you that I’m terrified that the baby will have some horrible disease or some awful malformation. I’d have to tell you that the other night when I woke up with contractions a razor sharp fear went through me. I remembered how bad it hurt to birth and I don’t know if I can do it again.

I’d have to tell you that I’m afraid Eliza will hate me for having another baby, that our relationship will shift in a way that will never shift back. I’d have to tell you that I don’t like the idea of putting one more thing between me and Seth, that sometimes all I want to do is sit with him for five minutes with no talk of bills, groceries or which one of us can stop and buy diapers.

I’d have to tell you that it’s just started to get easy with Eliza and the thought of starting over again seems daunting. I’d have to tell you that these last few months have been stressful, that our house has been turned upside down, that we have four goats and 14 chickens and I could do without almost all of them.

I’d have to tell you that I am impatient and cranky, that I’ve been hard to deal with these last few months. I’d have to tell you that I haven’t been the best mother some days, losing my temper at nothing, asking Eliza to handle way more than she probably should.  I’d have to tell you I’ve been an even worse wife, that Seth has, more than anyone, borne the burden of my physical discomfort, my temper, my emotional unevenness.

I’d have to tell you that I want to go for a run, get a decent haircut and wear my own clothes. I haven’t moved faster than a slow crawl in a while now and my hair is longer than I’d like to counter balance my round face. I’ve started to look in my closet longingly, touching sweaters, running my fingers along pearl snaps that haven’t fit for months and thinking about a time when they will fit again.

I’d have to tell you that when I can bring myself back to some sort of center, the questions that come up in my mind are logistical: How will I take two small children to the grocery store? How will I write with two babies? How will I take a shower? Where is my sister going to sleep when she’s here? Is Eliza getting enough veggies in her diet? Have we picked the right names? Can Eliza say Lucille? What if we have a boy? How does that work?

I’d have to tell you all I want to do is push this baby into a moonlit night and curl up in our bed with him or her, Eliza and Seth, our pod, and stay there until the world finds us.

I’d have to tell you that Eliza has started to say “happy” when she wakes up in the morning and that despite all of my angst, I am, Seth is and she is and I’m ready for this baby to be here, happy and safe and whole, with us. 

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