Cry Baby

The theater is bursting with people, and my daughter is bursting with tears. People keep scooching past our aisle-seat to reach the middle seats. Excuse me, pardon me... It's as though the rows were designed with stick people in mind. Anything possessing more than 2 dimensions being stuck awkwardly side-walking, brushing legs with any number of strangers.

My anxiety rises, and I apologize to each body that moves past me for my daughter's shrill screams... Rising like a flare in the sky above the murmuring and chattering of the pre-show audience. Each piercing cry cracking my composure a little more.

"Just calm down already Mia... The movie hasn't even started! " I say, trying to reason with the unreasonable. I try discreetly offering her a breast, which she refuses to latch onto. My secret weapon failing me in my time of need... If only I could've found a sitter...

My husband's hand on my thigh squeezes me sympathetically, and doubtfully. "We should go," his touch seems to say. 

We came to see Dune, an adaptation of one of our favorite books, on opening night. Our first show in ages... since before the lockdowns, and before the baby. Each ounce of excitement I had stored up was rapidly being destroyed, turning into disappointment, regret, and helplessness.

I see myself, standing in my mind: an antique shop. Full of lovely, delicate antiquated hopes, and desires... As screaming hooligans run around smashing every thing they can find. Toppling shelves, flipping tables... And there's nothing I can do but watch, and feel the intense discomfort of every soul around us. Each one wishing we would leave, some saying it aloud, turning around in their seats to single out the annoying anomaly.

At this rate not just our evening, but everyone's, will be ruined. 

The lights dim, and the last few folks shuffle into position... And from my aisle-seat, I make an easy escape. The floor lights look blurry, shimmering. I look back at the screen to see the new logo appearing, and my husband following suit with the diaper bag, apologizing to our short-term neighbors. 

I've been waiting for years to see this. Since the first announcement came out. Since the artists started dropping concept art. Since before I was pregnant, and gave birth... Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat tightens. I try to blink the tears back in but they're on a one-way street down my cheeks...

"First world problems," my mind interjects snarkily, "Pathetic."

The light in the hall is blinding. I don't want to see anyone, and I don't want to be seen... But in my arms I hold an over-tired, fussy, unstoppable siren. Heads turn and follow me, expressions ranging from sympathy to disdain to humor- there are a couple "I'm glad I'm not that chick" laughs. I wish I weren't her either. I wish babies had an off switch. I wished we never came.

It's way past Mia's bedtime, so I had bet she'd sleep through the movie... And I couldn't have been more wrong. I lost that bet big-time. Mia, one. Mama, zero.

My voice quivering, I apologize to the people in the halls as I hastily make my way to a family bathroom- a sanctuary from the stares.

In the small tiled room, she echoes even louder. I push my back against the door, trying to imagine the sound is stuck with us in the room... Imagining her wails locked in a box that shrinks smaller and smaller until it turns to silence... Only to burst open again, in the second big bang. 

My husband knocks at the door, "Can I come in?" I step aside and crack the door. He squeezes in, sets the diaper bag down and swiftly takes Mia from my arms.

Bouncing her, and patting her back, shhh, shhh, shhh.... He paces around the room. 

I grab some toilet paper and blow my nose, wiping my tears on my sleeve.

"It's okay Love, you don't have to cry. " He says, swaying calmly. "We can rent it at home some time."

My throat feels welded shut, seering with silence. Unable to speak for fear of the dam breaking. I know we can watch the movie later. I know I don't have to cry, but I have no choice. I feel overwhelmed, over extended. and over it.

I shake my head, no. Avoiding speech, avoiding eye contact. Staring at the toilet bowl, I throw in my tissue and grab another one, sitting down. Resting my wet face in my hands. One sob escapes, then two. The dam breaks and the tears flow out. The noise of Mia's cries fading into white noise, mingled with my own.

My husband cradles Mia in one arm, putting his other hand gently on my neck. Massaging it firmly and calmly. He doesn't speak, but his silent touch says, "Let it all out. I'm here. You can cry, its okay. I may not understand, but I support you." And I cry. Each sob, carrying a heavy burden. 

Feeling like I've given all I have and it's still not enough. That I'm losing who I am- becoming nothing but a diaper changing milk machine. That wanting any amount of time for myself is too much. I'm invisible. Feeling like even the simplest of tasks has turned into juggling on a unicycle. Feeling ashamed for not being in control, and for all the times I judged parents of screaming babies. Hypocrite. Feeling childish for breaking down over a movie. I only throw fuel on the fire- so much for all those mindful parenting books, psycho.

That I am stupid for thinking I can care for such a small, helpless human. But she's still alive. And... Miraculously, she's asleep. The storm clouds part, and a glimmer of sunlight peers through the clouds. 

She looks like an angel sleeping in her daddy's arms. Face blotchy from screaming, and wet from tears, but peaceful. Calm. A calm that is contagious. My tears shift, from guilt and blame to gratitude. I meet my Love's eyes, and he wipes a tear away with his free hand.

"Looks like she finally wore herself out!" He says, "what do you say we go watch something at home? Enjoy some cocoa, cuddle up? The theater seats are so cramped anyways. "

I nod, sniffling "Yes, please."

"We can take the scenic route home... look at some stars, think of all the different planets out there... Nerd out about intergalactic travel and make up weird alien species."

"It's a date" I laugh, wiping my tears on my sleeve, blowing my nose again. I get up and flush, he holds my hand. Kissing me gently, first on the lips, then on my tear-stained cheeks. I kiss him back, falling in love all over again. Knowing I am not alone. I am loved I am seen. I am not broken, I am growing. I am learning. I am allowed to feel, feel to the depths of my being, to be raw and vulnerable. And not despite who I am, but for who I am... That I am loved.

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Author's Note: 

As a new mom, with a toddler, I thought it would be nice to write about postpartum depression for Mental Health Awareness Week and Mother's day. I'm eternally grateful to have the love and support of my partner and soon-to-be husband, Josh. I realize not all women are raising their child or children with a partner, but if you're ever feeling overwhelmed it's okay to either put your baby somewhere safe and take a break, or hand them to someone who can help if someone's available. You're not alone, raising humans is challenging in ways you can't expect. They are the ultimate challenge, and ultimate joy. Be strong, Mama's! And all you Dads too.