In on the Secret
By Melissa Kutsche
@melissakutschewrites
“Let me get someone to help you with that, Hon,” the cashier says, her smile dripping with earnestness. Before I can protest, she picks up the phone next to her register and pages someone to come help a very large pregnant lady (me) carry her bags to her car.
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that. I can handle it,” I say to her with a smile equally magnanimous. I shove my receipt in my purse and resolve to leave on my own as soon as the last bag is in the cart. I’ve loaded it to the brim—without any help from a Target employee—with diapers, wipes, and Depends (from what I hear, Baby and I will both need diapers for a bit after she’s born). I set the last bag on top and grip the handle, ready to bolt, when a teenage boy with a shadow of a mustache grabs the back of my cart and starts to drag it away from me. Seriously?
“I’m really okay, I swear,” I try to keep my voice calm. “I’m stronger than I look.” It’s true because they can’t see my powerhouse thighs under this tent of a maternity dress. Also, how do they think everything got into the cart in the first place? I can tell the kid is just doing the cashier’s bidding, and I appreciate that they want to help, but I just don’t need—or want—assistance. I want them to listen. I want to show them I can do hard things. I want to show myself I can do hard things.
I open my mouth to refuse one last time when someone from the back of the line calls out, “Just let them help you!” I look over my shoulder and see a woman about my age bouncing back-and-forth with a baby strapped to her chest. Bare baby feet dangle next to her hips. Another set of bare feet stick out from the front of her cart, where a sticky-faced toddler sits and wails. “The help stops once they come out,” she continues. “So you might as well let them help you now while they still want to.” She holds eye contact with me while her words, tinged with admonishment, permeate the silent line of people between us.
I don’t know what to say to her. Instead of responding, I turn to the cashier. “Please make sure she gets help, too,” I say, hoping I’ll be heard this time.
In the parking lot, I guide the young clerk to my car, parked in the front row, in a spot with a “Reserved for Expectant Mothers” sign. After he helps me load the trunk, I sink into the driver’s seat and rest my hand on my belly. Squinting into the sun, I notice all the minivans parked in ordinary spots without special signs.
In this moment, I want the mom from the line to be wrong. I want to believe that all the strangers who have “oohed” and “ahhhed” over my basketball belly will be welcoming to my child one day. Even when the copious offers to help make me feel a bit damsel-in-distress-ish, I am thankful for the kindness, and I want to believe it exists for every stage of motherhood. I want the mom from the line to be wrong, but I wonder if she’s actually let me in on a secret.
***
“You’ve got your hands full there!” If I am at a grocery store with my kids, chances are, an older man will stop me to say this. It happens so often that I can reply automatically with one of several canned responses:
“Yep—they always are!”
“Just me and my traveling circus!”
“It keeps life interesting!”
What I want to say is something closer to, “No crap, Sherlock.” Instead, I spit out one of my prepared lines, give a fake chuckle, and continue to plod through the store. Commenting strangers often tell me how full my hands are when they see me attempting to keep toddler fingers off of glass pickle jars and candy bars. Sometimes they share this observation as I’m ironically whisper-yelling at my preschooler to please lower his voice, and generally trying to manage the craziness in my cart while not forgetting items from my list.
Occasionally, an older woman in the same grocery store will also address me. Instead of telling me my hands are full, she’ll say, “I just wanted to tell you that you’re doing great,” or “Don’t worry, it gets easier.” Instead of giving me the impression that they are glad not to be in my shoes, these other mothers let me know that they see beyond the chaos and offer hope.
One Tuesday morning, a woman at the post office talks directly to the baby strapped on my back, singing him an entire nursery rhyme before addressing me, “I thought I’d keep him busy while you filled out your form,” she says, then adds, “I raised three boys.” She winks and waves goodbye. Later that same week, I bag my own groceries with the baby strapped to my chest. Sweat trickles down my side from my armpit to my hip. I feel my face flush, but no one is going to tell me I’m glowing now. I see the line forming behind me and hurry my game of grocery Tetris, stacking produce cartons and placing breads and chips on top before loading up the cart. In my rush, I knock over a crate of blueberries, which spill across the floor in every direction. What happened to that cute pregnant lady who everyone wanted to help?
I turn to the woman waiting behind me. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m holding you up,” I say. She bats away my apology with her hand and a smile.
“Please don’t apologize,” she says. “Watching you reminds me of my days running errands with four little kids.” She pauses before adding, “I don’t know how I did it.”
It’s the other mothers who know about mesh underwear and leaking nipples who take the time to support and encourage. The mamas who remember sleeping on the baby’s floor all night and still getting up to make breakfast for the big kids in the morning. The moms who fielded questions like “How much does she weigh?” or “Is she sleeping through the night?” or “Is she a good baby?” (aren’t they all good babies?) when all they wanted was someone to notice how hard they were trying to keep it together. Almost always, the strangers who stop to help me are the ones who are in on the secret.
***
“How old is your little one?” I ask, trying to strike up a conversation with the woman ahead of me in the security line.
“Three months,” she says, smiling at the baby on her shoulder. The line creeps forward and she takes a break from patting the baby’s back to push an overloaded stroller with her free hand. I wince when she nudges the stroller ahead, expecting a carryon suitcase and overstuffed diaper bag to tumble.
“Is this your first time traveling with the baby?” I ask. (It is.) “Are you traveling alone today?” (She is.) I chew my lip, watching the leaning tower of baby paraphernalia sway. Surely one of our fellow holiday travelers will offer to help her, I think, scanning the group for a friendly face, preferably one who doesn’t have their own progeny with them. I squeeze my kids’ hands, one on each side of me.
We approach the conveyor belt, and I pull out iPads, strip off hoodies, and half-remove my boots, in preparation for the security screening. My kids have been traveling since they were babies, and we have an efficient routine. I am a little concerned about my new acquaintance, though. She zips the diaper bag shut and shoves it onto the belt, half of a blanket trailing behind. I fight the urge to offer help. With two kids in tow, I feel ill-equipped to do much for her except provide moral support. I also don’t want to overstep—I know from experience that even with full hands, moms are capable of a lot. My own memories of flying for the first time with my infant daughter are fuzzy, but still laden with stress, sweat, and breastmilk. She heaves her carry-on with a grunt, and I can’t help myself. “Can I help you with anything?” I ask in a quiet voice.
She turns to me and raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Actually, yes,” she starts. “Could you put my coat on the bottom of the stroller? It’s hard for me to bend over while I’m holding her.” I want to share with her the magic of baby-wearing, but instead, I pull a white knee-length puffer from the top of the stroller and punch it down into the storage compartment under the stroller’s baby seat. She moves through the metal detector, and my kids and I take our turns in the scanner. When we reach the other side, we snatch our bags and re-pack our belongings. I notice the other mom is still next to the conveyor belt. She is grabbing items one at a time and tossing them onto the stroller, which somehow looks more precariously overloaded than before.
The other travelers don’t seem to notice. Maybe they see the cute baby, but the mom is invisible. The words spoken to me six years ago in Target pop into my head: “The help stops once they come out.” I wanted that mom to be wrong, but I know from experience there is some truth to what she shared. Moms are resilient and strong and amazing. But we are not superheroes.
The mom from Target was missing one important part of the secret she shared—that motherhood also folds us into a new sisterhood with other mothers. From the part of my spirit that was cracked open when I entered motherhood, and from which flows the indescribable love I have for my kids, also came another love for my fellow moms. And that is the secret I want to share with this mom, here in this airport today.
“Can I help you with anything else?” I ask before heading to my gate. She looks down at her feet and back up at me.
“Could you tie my shoes for me?” she asks with a grin. I smile back and without a second thought, bend down.