Girl in the Moon

Nine years and one week ago, I sat in my bedroom -- the only room the Kid would allow an AC; he can be weird that way -- in the heaviest heat of August with an extra 45 pounds of fat baby. I was too tired and too fat pregnant to do much more than tap the remote and stuff cookies in my mouth. I remember catching a glimpse of my pathetic self in the mirror over my dresser and just sighing. What was the point really of not eating another cookie? What was the point of bothering to move at all? I was already about 5 days past the so-called due date (fuck you to all doctors who offer up these flimsy glimmers of hope) and about three weeks past happy.

Some astronaut was making a return flight into orbit; I think it was John Glenn. The news people were getting all excited about it for a couple reasons: August is generally a slow news month and this dude was old. The whole shebang added up to a sweet opportunity for metaphor and poetry and ratings.

So I'm sitting there, barely moving, barely able to move, while the Kid flexed his muscles and admired his skinny self, and I burst into tears. Not like weepy, sob sob tears. Like hysterical, can't catch a breath tears. Wailing. Howling. Bawling.

The Kid started to panic: what's wrong? what's the matter? oh my god what's going on?

I'm alright, I managed to utter in between gasps for air, it's just that I will never, ever be an astronaut. It's over for me now. Over!

LOOK AT ME, I wailed. LOOK! No one wants big fat pregnant astronauts! OH MY GOD! What have I done?? (wail, sob, weep)

The Kid took a deep breath (or at least I am assuming he did, as I was too busy wringing my swollen hands to notice) and said, didya wanna be an astronaut? which was really a stupid question as he knew full well that science mostly meant horoscopes to me and I'm also kind of a fraidy cat.

NOOOOOOO, I howled, maybe not but still! that is so NOT THE POINT. The point is -- (sob sob blow nose) -- I don't know what the fucking point is, but I am never going to space. Ever. Not nooooooowwwwww. (wail, howl, weep, sob)

A week later, I was howling for entirely different reasons, none of them worth mentioning because ewww, gross. And in so many of the weeks and months later, I was crying from the prolonged freak out that included leaving a job and starting a business and nursing a baby and raising a baby and trading in my cool card for a Costco Card. I struggled at least once a day with an extreme lack of confidence I had never in my life felt. With a baby who I was convinced couldn't, wouldn't and probably shouldn't love me.

It wasn't that I was depressed or even ambivalent, but I did have moments of feeling totally unworthy of who she was and what she needed and completely confused about how I was supposed to feel about all of that. I didn't know her and I didn't know me with her, and also, there was fear -- fear of failure, fear of success, fear of perfection, fear of anything less than perfection. I was terrified of fucking us both up.

Sometimes, I want to grab that kid and tell her, I am so so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know that it wasn't me (and I never thought it was you), but I wish I had given us both a break.

Turns out the girl has been blessed with a resilience that has made every one of the injuries done to her by a rookie me by mistake simply roll away with a shrug and hug and wise kind of knowing that I am just doing my best. Turns out she has the kind of resilience to handle the occasional mean girl or the occasional failure with a whatever kind of 'tude that will serve her well. Turns out she was the mother-maker this mutha needed.

I never did become astronaut. Or a rock star or a sports commentator or a foreign correspondent or a sailor of the seven seas. (I actually never really wanted to be that last thing but I just felt like writing it: sailor of the seven seas. OK: I'm over it now.) Truth is I didn't so much give up any of the big dreams I had, I just opted in to another one.

And she turns 9 years old today.


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Props to Goat and Tater and Baby on Bored who reminded me of this stuff with their own stuff.

Also, I am at my mom's with my family, most of whom consider the internets to be a good place to get directions and not much else. I'm sneaking my screen time like I used to sneak booze out of the garage: I promise I'll make it up to you soon.