Bare and Free
By Laura Leinbach
@lauraleeme
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror with a set of five sparkly studs in my hand. These days, photos and holidays are about the only thing that will get me to bother with earrings. It’s naptime for my two littles and quiet time for the oldest, and I hope to be finished getting ready for our family photos this afternoon before anyone wakes up or needs me. A small sigh escapes my lips. Last year, I felt ready to barf the day of our photo session. I very nearly didn’t even book it, worried that as a newly single mom, family photos wouldn’t look right to people, or they might think I had no right to celebrate my “broken family.”
But today, I’m just excited to chronicle another year with my favorite little people. I check my aim in the mirror and wiggle the biggest pair of earrings around to get them through my first holes—past the scar tissue from a metal allergy I didn’t know I had. I can’t help but shake my head at my own reflection when I press the fifth earring through the cartilage at the top of my left ear. I thought I was so damn cool in college when I got my helix pierced in a tattoo shop and rocked a spiral barbell.
Nine years ago, it took two pairs of needle nose pliers borrowed from my dad’s tool chest and a little bit of desperation to unscrew the ball on the end of that barbell. My earring had been part of me through the final year of my teens, college graduation, my first real job, an MRI, and my engagement photos. The wedding was where I drew the line—it was time. In a windowless black and white bathroom down the hall from my childhood bedroom, I wrestled with that earring until it came free. There, now I’ll look like a bride.
The now thirty-something woman in the mirror cocks her head back at me, ears glittering—maybe she does look kind of cool after all. But she’d better move it before naptime ends. I tiptoe to my bedroom, sit on the edge of my bed, and reach for chapstick from my nightstand ring dish. That dish used to hold my wedding rings every night until I put them back on each morning, but they’re long gone. The last time I slid those rings off my finger and into the porcelain and gold ring dish was at the end of the day I asked him to leave—the day I sat in the living room and waited for him to come home from work, while the kids jumped on the trampoline in the backyard under my mom’s watchful eye. My brother stood as a silent sentinel in the kitchen.
The next morning, the rings stayed in the dish, and instead I picked up a ring my 4-year-old always asked me to wear—plastic gems in the shape of a flower glued to the kind of metal band that stains your finger green in less than an hour. She’d picked it out for me all by herself at the little holiday shop organized by her daycare. I knew it would make her happy to see it on my finger, and I also knew I couldn’t face questions from the kids about why I suddenly wasn’t wearing the usual set. And then a glimmer of gratitude for the bizarre do-everything-from-home environment of spring 2020 passed through me; I was even less ready to go out in public with a naked ring finger.
In the present, I replace the chapstick, and it rolls against a thin gold band. Some 25 years ago, while shopping for my mom with my grandma, I found the sweet little ring in a department store. It was real gold—the 10k clarification didn’t mean much to me as a kid—and a row of open hearts connected side-by-side to form the band. My eyes lit up as I turned the ring box over in my small hands; it was perfect. I just knew when my mom opened it she would see my love, and everyone else would too whenever she wore it.
In those first few weeks after the split, my mom came over every day, tag-teaming with me as we both juggled working from home and caring for my three kids in a lockdown. One afternoon after I put the kids down for naps, she held out an open palm to me and gestured toward my left hand.
“I noticed what you’re wearing and thought you might like one of these. Here, pick—whichever one you want; it’s yours.”
Cupped in her palm were several rings and among them, the gold heart band. My eyes flicked up to her face, then I picked it up without hesitation. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I connected the dots and years. Warmth spread from my hand across my body.
“I thought that would be the one you’d pick.” My mom smiled knowingly, and her eyes held a hint of tears. But she cleared her throat and went back to sweeping up crumbs left on the floor from the kids’ lunch, removing any pressure on me to respond.
The gold hearts guarded my ring finger for the first couple months, and I found comfort in its unsullied memories and ambiguous message about my relationship status. In time, it shifted to my right hand. One morning I just left it in the ring dish alongside my chapstick, fingernail clippers, and a smooth white rock my 3-year-old smuggled home from school as a treasure for me.
For our family photos last fall—the first set with just me and my kids in the picture—I debated over whether to put the gold band on again. I’d talked myself into booking the pictures, but was still a bundle of nerves leading up to the shoot. Would the photographer be awkward about posing a single mom and three kids? Would people judge me when I posted them on social media, loudly proclaiming my single-mom status? Would the pictures look weird, like someone was missing?
I made the kids the stars of the show—the girls in twirly mustard gold dresses and Logan in a bold striped sweater. Each took their turn to cheese it up for the camera, motivated by promises of cake pops for good behavior. I didn’t wear the ring, but dressed for comfort in jeans and an olive green cable-knit, happy to be a supporting character in the cast. When a link to our photo gallery popped up in my email, I wondered why I’d ever worried. There wasn’t anything missing or out of place in what our photographer captured, just overflowing love between kids who think their mom is the greatest and a mom who adores them right back. And when I saw my little family from our photographer’s viewpoint, I knew we were worthy of celebration.
Now, a year later, I rise from my seat on the edge of the bed. I swing my bedroom door shut to give myself a once over in the mirror that hangs behind it. This time around when I planned the outfits, I picked my dress out first—an ivory lace, floor-length maxi. My earrings sparkle between strands of my hair as I fasten a gold chain behind my neck. My hands, bare and free, smooth the lace of my dress when I do a half turn in the mirror to assess my reflection.
This year, I’m not afraid to stand out. And I don’t care whether I look how anyone else thinks I should, with or without a ring. I know when I walk down the stairs, my daughter will tell me I’m beautiful. I know my preschooler will wrap his arms around my neck in the tightest squeeze I’ve ever felt. I know my toddler will whisper, “Wow, Mommy,” when I show her my glittering ears.
I know that in a couple hours, we’ll pose for the camera as we laugh and smile—with our faces squeezed together, limbs intertwined, eyes full of each other—freezing this snapshot of our family story.
And most of all, I know that what we’ll celebrate has nothing at all to do with how we look.
Guest essay written by Laura Leinbach. Laura is a single mom of three who logs 40+ hour weeks as a marketing manager and is slowly coming around to the idea that “work-life balance” doesn’t actually exist. Unread emails and red notification bubbles make her twitchy, and lattes from the local coffee shop are her favorite little luxury. When she's not working or chasing after little ones, she flexes her creative muscles by writing, cooking, and updating her century-old fresh-start home. Follow along on Instagram and her website.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.