By Allie King
@alliehking

“I just feel so guilty,” I said, talking to my sister on the phone. “I’m already upending Noah’s life.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. I was only five weeks pregnant, and although I knew a second baby would change my firstborn’s world, I hadn’t expected the upheaval to start so soon.

The hormones were wreaking havoc on my wellbeing. Fatigue kept my eyes half-closed, and morning sickness kept my stomach half-empty. My son spent more time with Mickey Mouse than he did with me.

“Allie, he won’t even remember this time,” my sister said. “Really, he’s too young. Don’t worry about it too much.”

Later that day, the nausea let up, so Noah and I spent the afternoon collecting acorns and searching for four-leaf clovers. I chopped snack-time grapes and found the Baby Shark band-aids when he scraped his pinky toe. As the mundane minutes ticked away, my sister’s words echoed in my mind. But the more I spun them around, the heavier they felt.

Would he even remember these days—these moments, this love? 

A few days later, I asked my mom to come over for backup. I lay in bed with my door shut, willing my body to relax and fall asleep.

I’d been to the OBGYN for just-to-be-sure blood work three times that week, and my body and mind were hell-bent on reminding me. My stomach cramped and my lower back ached. Numbers and figures danced through my mind, parading anxiety through every crevice. I tossed to my left side, then back to my right. I pulled the covers up to my chin and started counting backward from 100.

By 87, I had already picked up my phone to Google miscarriage blood levels.

“We don’t really know what causes these levels to be low,” my doctor had said. “Just don’t Google it.”

I clicked my phone off and forced my eyes shut. I inhaled, feeling my chest expand. That’s when the distinct smell of garlic and Worcestershire wafted into my nostrils. Mmm, pot roast. I breathed deeper. Definitely my mom’s pot roast. The warm, hearty scent grew stronger by the minute, transporting me back to my parents’ old kitchen table at five o'clock on a school night.

My muscles relaxed, my bones eased, and I fell asleep.

*** 

Almost exactly one year later, I lay in bed awake again, except this time it was 4 a.m. My body had just softened and my breathing had just steadied when my two-month-old Lila’s shrill cry sliced through the silence of the night. My eyes jumped open and my jaw clenched.

You’re awake again?! I wanted to shout at her.

 I was so sleep deprived I felt deranged, but a second scream jolted me out of bed. Fumbling for my glasses on my nightstand, I shuffled out of the room. I had been awake since 2 a.m. I wasn’t sure if I was angry or just defeated. Her cries grew louder by the second. I worried they’d wake Noah as I clumsily rushed around the corner to the bassinet, nearly colliding with another groggy silhouette. It took a second for me to register my mom’s presence.

“Oh!” I said, half whispering, half shouting. “I’m sorry she woke you up.”

“No, it’s OK,” she said. “I was going to see if I could try to rock her back to sleep.”

“Well, uh, you don’t have to,” I said, “but I guess if you want to try.” My voice trailed off, along with any resistance I had. She nodded, shooing me back to my bedroom.

I lay in bed for a few minutes, listening. I knew my mom was a seasoned baby soother, but I also knew my daughter was a seasoned screamer. As I suspected, Lila continued to wail. I heard my mom desperately shushing and patting, rocking and singing. I gave it a few minutes before reemerging to relieve her. She looked as discouraged as I felt as I took Lila from her.

My daughter continued to cry in my arms, refusing my attempts to nurse her. Her arms flailed and legs thrashed. My blood pressure rose with each passing second. I was so preoccupied with calming her I didn’t realize my mom was still standing right beside me. When gripe water finally lulled the cries for half a second, I saw her.

“Oh, Mom, go back to sleep,” I said.

But she didn’t. 

She stayed there with me in the dead of night while I coaxed Lila to my chest and nursed her, as I rocked her and sang to her, and while I finally soothed her to sleep. As I held my exhausted daughter in my arms, I looked at my mom and realized she was holding me in the same way.

***

I’m sitting in the glider with Noah reading books while Lila naps in the other room. It’s only 10 a.m., and I’ve already scrubbed lotion out of the carpet, cleaned up pee that missed the potty, and made 18 different variations of breakfast. I try to remember the words to the books, so I can read with my eyes closed. Taylor Swift recently re-released some of my favorite teenage albums, and her Fearless tracks fill the air as we read about construction trucks. Without my permission, tears stream down my face.

“I'm thirteen now and don't know how my friends could be so mean,” Taylor sings. “I come home crying and you hold me tight and grab the keys.”

My mind flashes back to the front seat of my mom’s old silver car. We’re on our way to the outlet mall, where we’ll shop all the clearance racks until I forget about the sleepover I wasn’t invited to. We’ll probably stop for pizza and ice cream on the way home.

“Don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay, but I know I had the best day with you today,” Taylor continues.

I look down at the top of my son’s fuzzy head. He’s nestled into my now-squishy side, tucked safely under my arm. Taylor’s voice rises for the final verse.

“Now I know why the trees change in the fall. I know you were on my side even when I was wrong.”

I pull Noah in, and as a tear melts into his wild blonde hair, I wonder if my mom ever wrestled with the same questions plaguing me now:

 Do these exhausting, repetitive days add up to anything? Will they take this with them? Will they take me with them?

***

Two years ago, my parents sold the home I grew up in. The day before my parents closed on the house, I walked through each room. The walls had been painted a crisp white and the stained carpet replaced, but my memories remained intact.

As I let 27 years of life flood over me, I marveled at the thread that tied them together. There she was, sitting on the side of the bathtub, watching through the kitchen window; building another living room fort, mixing another pot of potato soup. There she was, in the driveway after I said goodbye to the boy and at my dad’s bedside after another round of chemo.

I hope she knows I took her with me—that the smell of her pot roast is enough to calm my anxious bones and her quiet presence is enough to hold me in the darkness. I don’t remember every mess she cleaned or cut she bandaged, but I remember every ounce of love she gave.

So I’ll keep rocking Lila in the dead of night and re-reading Little Blue Truck to Noah. I’ll keep nursing the baby when my back is sore and making his favorite oatmeal when cereal would be easier. 

I doubt they’ll remember those things, but I pray they’ll never forget what it is to be loved by me.

Guest essay written by Allie King. Allie is a creativity enthusiast who’s spent much of her life dreaming up DIY projects and writing about interior design. Now, she’s a full-time mama learning how creativity exists alongside dirty diapers and spilled smoothies. As an Enneagram 4, she finds solace writing about life’s most emotional trials and triumphs—and the way faith shapes them. She lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her husband, son, and daughter. You can find more of her words on Instagram or on her website.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.