A Day In Motherhood

What do America’s mothers think about?

There are many versions of motherhood in America. I think of this when I fall asleep. Next month my daughter will turn three months old, and I will lay a scarf on our carpet and stand on our coffee table to document her milestone. Every day is another memory, every moment a precious one. I think of how privileged I am. I wake up to the sound of her gurgling in her sleep. I get to put my ears on her chest and listen to her heart beat. I get to lift her in my arms when she cries. There are mothers who do not get to do this. Mothers who are torn away from their children in detention centers. Mothers who are shackled while they give birth. Mothers who are deported without so much as a goodbye to their children.

3.30 am

She is stirring. I know this because she turns her head towards me, struggling to free her legs from under her blanket. I watch her. As she drifts between wakefulness and sleep, I sit up straight and prop up a pillow, waiting to lift her up before she cries. My cat watches me, her eyes glistening in the dark. My husband’s chest heaves and falls with every breath. I wait but I’m also reminded that in a few hours, sunlight will filter through the windows. A heap of clothes in the guest bedroom have to be folded. The dishwasher has to be loaded. There isn’t any food left in the fridge. I flip the news on my phone, reading an article about migrant deaths on the US-Mexico border.

My daughter wakes up.

4.50 am

I’m groggy. She is making a noise. I cannot tell what it is. I pull her close to me and squint my eyes. In the night light, I can tell she’s taking in deep breaths. I slowly move her dock a notch higher, careful not to wake her or my sleeping husband. I try to figure out what it could be. Is she having a nightmare? Is her chest congested? I watch her closely, trying to focus. I rub my eyes, and pull my hair into a ponytail. In a few minutes, she calms down. My cat walks over to my side of the bed, bunting. I gently scratch her neck until she settles down.

I remember that the loaf of sourdough bread in the kitchen is probably stale now. I wonder what I could pack my husband for lunch tomorrow.

I drift. I dream.

6 am

Her eyes are twinkling. She is wide awake and smiling. I can barely open my eyes and my body aches. But I prop the Boppy in front of me and lift her to my breast. I read the news as she feeds. I text my best friend. I look at photos of beautiful dresses on Instagram. I look at my husband sleeping near me. I think of how lucky I am to wake up near him every day. As I burp my daughter, I remember that I need to file some paperwork for her insurance claim. I wonder if I will have time to arrange her documents. I smell her hair, and kiss her gently. When I lay her down, I slip out of bed to wash my face. My cat runs towards me, meowing. She is hungry.

Suddenly, I feel hungry too.

9 am

She is crying. I hold her up. I lay her down. I cycle her legs. But her cries grow louder. I try to feed her. I coo, I sing, I hum. I feel my anxiety rising. I sit down and pat her back. The tea I’d hastily poured into a cup is cooling. I walk up and down the corridor, looking at the photos my husband had nailed into the wall. Photos from our trips long ago to Nepal, Germany, Sri Lanka. I walk past our bookshelves, and am reminded that I need to rearrange them. I pass the heap of clothes in our guest bedroom, and tell myself that I will go through it as soon as my husband comes home. If he comes home on time, that is. I wonder if I can manage to put her down for a nap. Eventually, my hunger begins to fade. She is asleep.

Sighing, I close my eyes.

11.30 am

The silence is deafening. I talk to her, and she gurgles. Can you see me? I ask her. Can you hear my voice? I look at her face for answers. My heart skips a beat if she looks me directly in the eye. I immediately pick up my phone and turn on my video. She looks away and I try again. And again. Finally, when she falls asleep on my chest, I pick up the book I’ve been trying to read all morning. I try to focus but I’m unable to. There are reminders on the whiteboard I stuck on our fridge; hospital receipts that I need to request for, breast pump parts to wash and dry, writing to complete. I am suddenly filled with a sense of dread. I start browsing jobs on my phone, scrolling endlessly to see if there are opportunities that are interesting. Flexible. But I find nothing.

I am not nothing. I am not nothing. I keep repeating this, trying to comfort myself.

1 pm

She cries again. This time, I know she isn’t hungry. I hurry into the bedroom to change her again. But she doesn’t stop. Instantly, I find myself in a cycle of repetition. Humming. Cooing. Singing. Patting. Talking. I fill a small syringe and give her gas-relief drops. She calms down. In a few hours, my husband will be home.

I text him. No answer. I try his office phone. No answer.

I feel the anxiety rising in me. I think of what might happen. What if he doesn’t come home? What if I have to do this alone? What if I never find a job again? Will I find a job again? What if my body doesn’t go back to normal? Will the pain go away? I lay her down and pat her tummy. I want to talk to her. I wish that she could talk back.

3.30 pm

There are mothers walking around the neighbourhood. I watch them from my window. Some of them have their headphones plugged in, walking silently around the block pushing their strollers. Others sit around the park, trying to handle toddler tantrums, read, watch their children dig their feet in the mud. I wonder what their days are like. I look up mothers’ groups around me on my phone. I scroll down, reading conversations. I am immediately overwhelmed. My daughter is now silent, so I gently prop her in the Boppy and step into the shower.

The warm water soothes the anxiety. All of a sudden, I am drifting again. I feel weightless, calm, relaxed. I think of India. The tropical heat. The scent of monsoon rain.

I hear her crying again.

7 pm

Dan is home. I feel a pang of guilt. He is hungry. I can tell by the way he looks. He is tired. I haven’t had a moment to cook, I tell him, if you take her I can make something. I open our fridge and look through the cabinets. I slice onions, tomatoes, and throw them in the Instapot. I add chicken, spices, water. I stir, I taste, I stir. He is watching re-runs of the Office, our daughter in his arms. I suddenly miss the evenings we used to spend together back in India; late night dinners at the mall after a movie, drinks with our friends, planning parties and getaways. There were people around us. There were people to invite over. Now, there are no people.

After we eat, I finally begin to fold the laundry as he cleans the kitchen. When we finally settle in front of the television, we spend time aimlessly flipping through channels.

The air is heavy with exhaustion.

10.30 pm

I’m in bed, trying to unwind. I curl up with my phone and read the news again. I look at photos of mothers and fathers at the border, holding toddlers in their arms, their faces weary. Haunting. I still cannot stop reading stories about Marshae Jones, a young, pregnant woman who was sentenced after she was shot in the stomach. I read that the charges have now been dismissed. There is a water crisis in Chennai. My Twitter timeline is flooded with reviews of the latest season of Stranger Things. Christian viewers are mindlessly fighting about Luke from The Bachelorette. Tired, I turn off my phone and lie down. I run my fingers over my stomach, wondering how Marshae might have felt. There are stretch marks deeply etched on my skin, rising like small hills on a desert stripped of life and soul.

I cannot imagine the pain she might have gone through.

12.00 am

I retreat. I pull the covers to my chin and stare at the night light. In the dim, blue aura I see my daughter’s silhouette. Dan is asleep curled up near her. Our cat lazily strolls into the room and climbs up on the changing table. I watch her eyes flicker and glow in the darkness. In about three hours, she will stir again. I close my eyes and think about tomorrow. There is paperwork to be done. There is laundry to be folded. The apartment has to be vacuumed and swabbed. Our cat’s litter box has to be cleaned. I feel the anxiety rising again. But I remind myself that I am lucky.

Privileged.

I get to watch her sleep. I get to hold her when she cries. I get to make her feel loved. Every day.

There are mothers who do not get to do this.