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Blue

Writer's picture: jaclyn kingjaclyn king

“These are pants,” I enunciate loudly and clearly, holding up a large pair of jeans with holes in the knees. “They are blue. Daddy’s blue pants,”

Norah blows a spit bubble in my direction, her head bobbing from side to side, and her chunky arms held out to the side by the pink foam seat that she is wedged into. Her pale green onesie has a huge wet ring around the neck, a dark stain spreading nearly to her navel. She will need to be changed again, soon. Blowing spit bubbles is her new thing and she has already gone through three shirts today. I fold the pants and put them aside, then fish around in the basket on the floor for the next item.

“Here’s mommy’s purple sweater!” I exclaim. “Purple! Sweater! It’s mine!”

Norah looks at me, her attention drawn by the high tone of my voice. Something exciting must be happening. I fold the purple sweater and place it atop the teetering pile on the bed. We do this nearly every day. Today it is snowing. Just like yesterday. And the day before. The sky is a gray-blue steel, the trees black and bare, and the cold so tight it could crack over you like a sheet of glass. After I give Norah a blow-by-blow of the clean laundry, we will get into a dry shirt, have some pears for lunch, put on another clean shirt, and then I’ll walk her around the island in the kitchen for a half hour until she falls asleep. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to cry in the shower for a few minutes before she wakes up. Then I’ll wash dishes while she perches in her Bumbo seat on the kitchen counter and blows more spit bubbles. I’ll be very excited about the dishes. I might even sing a song about plates, cups, forks, and spoons. I’ll smile the whole time. I will try not to look at the clock. I will not get a chance to cry again until David gets home.

Norah has a happy mommy. A very happy mommy. I sing, I play, I tickle, I prattle on and on, a running commentary on everything I am doing and everything we see. I had read somewhere that this helps with language development. Norah eats only the best baby food. She gets two regularly scheduled naps each day. Her mommy smiles a lot. Her mommy loves being a mommy. I am so lucky. I am so healthy. I am so beautiful. Norah is beautiful. We live in a golden bubble of bliss.

In the evenings, after dinner, I let David play with the baby and I “go check on something.” I take a bottle of wine out into the deep blue darkness, over to my old blue Jeep, which is buried in a high snow banking behind our shed, since I hardly ever drive it anymore. I have to clamber through the thigh-deep snow drifts and push hard to get the door open. I start the engine and tune the radio to a country station and I sit in the slowly warming cab and sob uncontrollably over the steering wheel, the windows fogged with my heaving breath. Sometimes I hope that the tailpipe is so buried in the snow that I’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning and die out there. At least then I wouldn’t have to go back into the house and smile.

David doesn’t ask me any questions when I return, just follows me around the kitchen with his concerned eyes, as he absentmindedly rocks the bassinet next to the couch. He isn’t equipped to deal with this. He doesn’t even have the words for it. And my words are too sharp to be shared. I just pad around the house with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, tears leaking down my face as if that is my natural state; I don’t even acknowledge them anymore.

My pregnancy had been a breeze. I was fit and healthy and I had a great appetite. I didn’t even have a touch of morning sickness. At seven months I was building rock walls and shoveling dirt in the garden. I wore a string bikini to the beach, my tanned pregnant belly thrust out proudly, causing old women to avert their eyes. I was the picture of robust health, bursting with life, the embodiment of the glowing pregnancy. I’d eat a whole watermelon in one sitting, a whole bushel of grapes, two cartons of raspberries. At night, David and I would curl around one another on our couch and watch old Westerns while he rubbed my feet and the baby performed slow somersaults inside of me.

I was due on Thanksgiving Day, so I planned ahead and we had a huge turkey dinner the week before. Then, Thanksgiving came and went and there was no baby, so we ate turkey again. I was insane with anticipation. I called my obstetrician on the Saturday after our second Thanksgiving, angry, as if she had lied to me, and demanded to have the baby. When she tried to calm me down, I pronounced that I would see her “first thing Monday morning!” and hung up. At 3am on Monday morning, I went into labor.

Four days later, we returned home with our beautiful baby girl. I posed in the kitchen with her, wearing a fresh face of makeup, a fluffy pink robe, and a smile. Perfect life. Three days later, we were hit with a devastating ice storm that knocked out power for weeks. On day 13 of no power, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of my parents’ upstairs den, exhausted and overwhelmed, I decided that breastfeeding was not for me. I loved the baby fiercely, with a love so foreign and powerful that it scared me, took my breath away. I cried whenever someone else held her. I was also so sad that I could barely think straight. I had been told that it was “just the baby blues” and that it was hormonal and normal and everyone felt this way. On New Year’s Eve, I intercepted a text message that wasn’t meant for me; two friends discussing how much they couldn’t stand me. I remember the words to this day, “don’t bother with her, she’s crazy.” I agreed with the sentiment, and gave in to it. Four months later, I was still crying.

This story is supposed to end with me describing the incredible healing process I went through, how I lifted myself up and found my joy again. I must have meditated and yoga-d my way out of it, right? Those friends apologized and begged for forgiveness, right? I saw a therapist, I took medication for postpartum depression, I healed my mind with bubble baths and manicures….? Actually I did none of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely should have done some of those things! I look back now with amazement at how stupid I was not to see it for what it was and seek the help I so clearly needed. But I was too busy, too ignorant, and too tired and depressed to realize what was going on. At six months, my doctor checked my vagina and told me I was “all set to go” but he never asked about my mental health. I guess the vagina was the important thing. David cared for me the best way he knew how, with love and patience. Norah grew and grew. And one day, nearly eight months after delivery, I wasn’t depressed anymore.

A year later, at my annual exam, the doctor praised how quickly I had bounced back from pregnancy, mentioned how strong and healthy I was, and encouraged me to have another baby. I think I surprised him with my vehement rejection of the idea, shaking my head so violently I nearly came up off the table, saying “no way, I’m not going through that again!” When I told him I had suffered with severe postpartum depression, he waved it off as a small inconvenience. His words were “oh, that’s not a big deal, we have medication for that.” I asked him to place an IUD before I left his office.

Norah is a teenager now, I have a black Jeep instead of a blue one, I don’t cry in the shower, and I don’t wish that I had more pregnancies. In the pandemic lock down, I would sometimes wish that there was another kid in our family, worrying about Norah’s isolation. “If she only had a sister to hang out with…” I’d think, watching her sit alone in her room day after day through the long 2020/2021 winter. But I was too afraid of that dark well; maybe the second time I could tumble in and never come out. Besides, I am too old for babies now. Norah is strong and smart and has a wicked sense of humor, and we go for long walks together and she prattles on and on about the books she is reading, the music she is listening to, the games she is playing; it’s my turn to listen.

She will be in high school next year. I have no idea what is next for me. But this I do know - all things end. Just as Norah’s childhood is coming to an end, my teaching career came to an end, yesterday, last week, and last year all ended. A depression that was so deep and dark that I never thought I’d see the light of day again ended in its own time, just as all feelings and states of being end. All things are transient. I focus on this idea especially in the fall, when I am already missing the hot summer days and dreading the long, cold winters, where my depression can sometimes creep in to ruin things. Now, I expect and understand the cycle of highs and lows, of hot and cold, I prepare for it and try to accept it when it comes, try to flow through the ups and downs, the changes of season within me with as much ease as possible. While dark blue is not my favorite color in the rainbow, I acknowledge its place on the color wheel, just as deserving as bright yellow and magenta. I feel gratitude for the good days, of which there are many, and I am patient with the bad days, of which there are few, knowing that this day will end, this moment will end, and this life will end.



“It is not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be impermanent when they are not.” ~Thich Nat Hanh

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**This story is told from my own personal experience, and in no way am I trying to indicate that you “wait it out” if you are feeling depressed. Call your doctor! Go to a therapist! Take your meds! Practicing acceptance doesn’t mean not taking any action at all. There are people, services, and tools out there to help you - use them! Non-attachment is simply one of the many tools that may help you through dark days.


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2 commentaires


Raw honesty. Grateful for your presence in my life.

J'aime

Heather Garcia
Heather Garcia
11 oct. 2021

Much love

J'aime

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