The Mom Upstairs
By Fay Gordon
@fay316
When my son was six months old, I kissed his forehead, drove to the airport, and flew across the country for my first work trip as a mother. Halfway into the flight, a flight attendant approached my row. He gestured toward my chest and informed me, and everyone in earshot, that if I needed to do “that thing again,” I could use the back row for privacy. He was referring my breast pump, though I felt accused of an illicit act. Mortified, I slumped down in my cramped 30” pitch seat and scrolled through baby photos.
Bad idea.
My son’s soul-piercing blue eyes beamed back at me. I felt my own eyes well up and my arms ache with desire to hold him. Could I make it through this trip? Could my family handle two days without me?
And, that ever present question: am I a terrible mother for leaving my baby and doing something by myself, for myself?
That was two years ago. And despite the rocky departure, I've come to enjoy my work trips. However, that achy push and pull, that question about how my family is doing without me, that feeling of missing them, never went away. It is always present. I might not need to "do that thing again," and the signs of motherhood might not be so obvious today, but I carry them with me. They are who I am now.
This fall, I flew back to Washington, D.C., two years after my first solo trip. With a few days of freedom on the docket, possibilities felt endless. Dinner at 7? 8? 9? Sure! Happy hour(s) with friends after work? Great! A melatonin before bed, knowing my toddler’s 4 a.m. pitter patter and water demands will not interrupt my slumber? *Chef’s kiss*
I pulled my suitcase down the brick sidewalk toward my AirBnB and debated the merits of Chop’t versus Sweetgreen for dinner. I thought about how I had three whole days before I had to pack another daycare lunch.
YES! No toddler, no rules! I thought.
I checked the address and looked up at the strollers parked in front of the narrow brick townhouse. Slowing the pull on my suitcase, I wondered if the AirBnB owners have small children.
After I unlocked the basement apartment and flopped onto the couch, I heard murmurs upstairs. Actually, more than murmurs. A child singing “Frère Jacques,” hitting the notes in spontaneous toddler cacophony. I thought of my son, Diego, and how he overemphasizes “ALL THROUGH THE TOWN!” in his hourly renditions of “Wheels on the Bus.”
With my laptop open, I tried to work but found myself focused on the sound upstairs. The father coaxing his daughter to eat more apples, the daughter running laps around the kitchen, the two of them singing Frère Jacques.
I wondered what my husband, David, planned for dinner. Upstairs, the father and daughter negotiated bath time, and I wondered if the other parent was stuck at work.
The walls were thin, and I had no problem hearing the Apple FaceTime ring.
“MAMA!!” the daughter squealed and erupted into a giggle fit.
The mother asked about their day and reminded her daughter about bedtime. She was calling from a work trip.
“We miss you! We can’t wait for you come home,” the father said.
“I know. I miss you, too. I’ll see you tomorrow,” the mother responded, then launched into I love you’s and goodnights with her daughter.
They hung up. The father cajoled the daughter to bedtime, singing to her along the way.
I thought about the mother after the call, sitting alone somewhere, wondering about her family. Does she know he’s doing a great job? That they’re having fun together? That even though they miss her, they really are ok?
Thousands of miles away from my own husband and toddler, witnessing the exact mother-child conversation I would engage in a few hours later, I took comfort in the one I heard. I took comfort from the love I heard beam through the phone. I realized how easy it was to see how well this stranger was doing, when I haven't been able to see that in myself.
***
On my second and final AirBnB night, I popped a melatonin, ready to relax into one more night of blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Just as my eyes started to droop over my Oprah magazine, something rang outside.
The neighbor’s doorbell. Ding, ding, over and over. I looked at my phone—11:30 p.m. Will someone answer that? I thought, and pulled a pillow over my head.
I realized the bell was for this apartment. After a moment’s hesitation, I walked to the front door.
A woman stood at the door. She kind of looked like me. A suitcase in hand, straight brown hair, frizzy from the DC humidity. Tired eyes. Navy striped shirt. Do I have that shirt? I snapped back to reality and opened the door.
“I’m so, so sorry!” she said. “I forgot my keys. My husband must have turned his phone off, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
It’s THE MOM FROM UPSTAIRS! I thought, my melatonin-brain finally clicked together.
I ushered her inside. She spit out 1,000 more apologies and concocted a plan to break into her home from the basement. Finally, safe in her house, she ran back downstairs to apologize again. She was rattled and obviously exhausted. We briefly chatted about our travel and discovered we both work for non-profits. I shared that I also have a toddler.
Did I tell her not to worry about being away? That I could hear joy in her daughter’s voice, I could sense the excitement upstairs when her voice came through the phone? No. Half asleep, but mostly afraid to admit I was a creepy listener, I didn’t mention it.
***
The next morning, I notice an envelope sitting outside the apartment. I read it and smiled: a kind apology card. I walk up the outside stairs and knock on the front door.
The mom upstairs answers. She looks completely different. Shoulders relaxed, she’s rested, with that peaceful glow that comes from being in your own home, with your own people. I thank her for the card.
Her toddler bounds down the hall to the front door, giggling. The mother scoops her up, kisses her on the cheek, and introduces me.
“This is Fay, she’s going home to her baby today!” she says. The daughter giggles.
“Yes, I can’t wait to get home,” I say, laughing with the toddler. “Please don’t worry about the interruption. This whole parenting thing is a lot,” I look at her daughter, “and you’re doing a great job.”
I want to say more, but that seems like enough. I say goodbye, and pull my suitcase back down the brick sidewalk to the Metro. I glance at my phone and check the time. Back home, Diego is waking up. David will soon spend the morning negotiating with him over waffles or hash browns, followed by multiple attempts to convince Diego to wear something other than his favorite car shirt, before loading him in a stroller for the walk to daycare.
And all will be fine. David’s got this. Their morning will proceed as usual without me. Still, I’m ready to be back in it, responsibility and everything. I walk a little faster, eager to get home and be in my place with my people.