Why losing you made me a better mommy (Dear Alyx)

For Jackie

Dear Alyx,

When we met, everything about you seemed wrong.  Your sweet, sharp-featured face and tiny frame were completely inappropriate for your gravel voice and rakish sense of humor. You looked like a teenager, yet composed yourself like a gentleman and worked like a seasoned bartender. I liked you instantly, and when I heard they were sending you to our restaurant to work some shifts I was overjoyed. Our tight-knit group is tough to break into, and although you had my wing to protect you it was unnecessary--you were a chameleon, a sneaky thief who stole our hearts while we were busy laughing with you.

While I was away having my baby, you successfully acted as my stand-in, a friendly face for my regular customers, dutifully answering their questions about me and my baby (even showing pictures on a few occasions). I saw you as my protege, although I can't take credit for having taught you a damn thing. Before I left I had proudly introduced you to skeptical faces ("How old is he? What's wrong with his voice?") who soon came to adore you as much as I did. You made work fun! Impossible! 

Monday night I was nursing the baby when Jane called me from the restaurant and told me that you were in the hospital. She filled me in on what she knew, which wasn't much. I hung up the phone and stared at the wall as the baby ate, her tiny hand clasped around my index finger. When Andy came home I had to tell him, and that's when the tears started. I could only think about your mom, and a terrifying fear gripped me. I was faced with the horrifying realization that my love isn't enough to protect my daughter. No matter how tightly she's wrapped in my arms, no matter how hard I'm loving her, the hand of fate is cunning.

The next night I came to see you in the hospital. I was in a group of people, and your mom made a beeline right to me. She thanked me for being there, which I waved off. She hugged me tight and pulled back to look me in the face, her hands gripping my arms. She said, "This has to be extra hard for you with a new baby." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slowly, afraid to say a word. "You go home," she told me. "You go home and hug that baby, hard, until she tells you to let go, and then you hug her again." 

I was astounded. This tiny woman in her Chucks and hipster glasses, whose son was fighting for his life down the hall, was comforting me. Without tears, without irony, she was offering loving words of advice only a mother can give. "Love that baby with everything you have." I smiled, and nodded, and I promised to do just that. 

The next day, when I heard they had decided to take you off life support, I made my way back to the hospital. The waiting area was busy with hugs and tears, everyone moving under a hanging sadness punctuated with a secret sigh of relief. Jordan came with me to see you, and I was glad for his arm around me. I held your hand as I said goodbye, staring intently into a face that didn't belong to you. I focused on your tattoos, and I ran my fingers through your impossibly full hair. I told Jordan that we were lucky to have known you, and he agreed. I really, really hope you heard me.

Before I left I got to spend a few minutes with your mom, and I felt really honored that she chose to sit with me. We talked about you, of course, and laughed about what you'd have been thinking. "What Would Alyx Say?" was her mantra, your humor comforting her when she needed you the most. As she left me she thanked me for making her laugh, still smiling as she made her way through the thick crowd.

Our time together was too short, but you left a profound impact on me. I'll miss your tight hugs and your ridiculous voice, your hilarious asides and your perfect quips. Because of you I'll hug my baby girl tighter, I'll kiss her more often, and I'll never miss an opportunity to tell her how perfect or how loved she is. Our friendship made me a better mommy, and I'll be forever grateful for that.

Thanks for the love, and for the laughs. I'll never, ever forget you.

With Love,

Liz

By Baby, My Body: The Aftermath

9 months pregnant

"Tell me what it's like to have your body back," sighed my (very) pregnant friend. She was sitting cross-legged on her couch across from me, almost as round as she was tall. Her two year-old was napping in her bed while my baby dozed quietly on my chest; we had a minute to enjoy some adult/pregnant/girl talk.

"It's nice to tie my own shoes!" I told her. She nodded wistfully.

"Tell me more," she said dreamily. We both laughed.

"I can see my lady bits," I began, "and I can clip my toenails, and..." You get it.

But the conversation really got me thinking: do I ever really "get my body back?" Do I want it back? 

Before I had a baby, my body and I were at odds. I spent a lifetime (beginning in early childhood) developing a very co-dependent relationship with food. I ate when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was anxious--and all of these were learned behaviors. I struggled with my weight from an early age, as did my parents and their parents. In childhood I was a food sneaker, and often I felt like cookies were easier to understand than other kids. I was an unusual mix of shy and extroverted, and although I used humor to try to distract other kids from my issues, I preferred books over playtime. I was head and shoulders taller than every kid in my class until junior high, with bright red hair and bad skin. No matter what I did I "stood out like a sore thumb" (as my mother still likes to point out). 

6th grade, at the height of awkwardness

In high school I gained some confidence as my body balanced itself out. Suddenly the boys were noticing the boobs I'd had since girl scout camp, and the smaller waist that had taken shape over the summer. But self-doubt still plagued me, as did a growing body image issue. I hid my figure behind baggy boy clothes. I envied girls in tight jeans showing off their high-school-perfect bodies while I spent hours in the bathroom mirror cursing my round belly and plump thighs.

As an adult, after thousands of dollars worth of therapy, my body and I had developed a fair relationship. I'd finally figured out how to dress myself, opting for form-fitting clothes that flattered my good parts. I married a man who loved my body, and told me so. I had been diagnosed as a "binge eater," and took medication to help ease my depression and curb my binges. I had developed a sort of forced confidence, and it served me well--other women envied my sense of self, and men found it sexy. This conviction was something I hid behind, often forcing myself out of my comfort zone in order to keep up appearances. I had created a woman I had always wanted to be: sexy and confident, well-liked and envied. I was terrified to get pregnant, to completely lose control of my weight and the image I'd created for myself. I didn't know if it was possible but I was sure I'd hate my body even more once that belly started to grow.

I was wrong.

I started to "show" at about three months. That soft little belly represented the tiny life growing inside me. I adored it. I didn't mind the spider veins that appeared on my hips and legs, and I certainly didn't mind my plumping breasts. And the bigger I got, the sexier I felt. In my mind I was the perfect picture of youth, vibrancy, and fertility. During those nine months I loved my body more than ever before, and I felt better about myself than I ever thought possible. I was glowing, I was beautiful, and I was making a little life inside me. Every day, every pound, was a miracle.

My daughter is almost three months old now, and I'm about 10 pounds lighter than I was when I got pregnant. I look at my naked body often, with a new sense of respect. This body made a human, from scratch. This body makes food for that tiny human, every single day. I have eyes that can watch her and keep her safe, ears that hear her cues and tell me she's hungry, strong arms that rock her to sleep when she needs soothing, hands to change her and dress her and stroke her hair, breasts that feed and comfort her...my heart doesn't beat for me anymore, it beats for us. 

My old body was selfish, and jaded. My old body never knew what it was capable of doing, or withstanding, or creating. My old body was a spoiled child that took itself for granted. 

I'm over that body. I don't want it back. And the reality is, that body stopped belonging to only me as soon as I got pregnant.

My new body is a little plumper, a little softer, and maybe a little scarred. But to me, my new body is more beautiful, more perfect than it ever was...and I'm much happier in it than I ever imagined.

11 weeks post baby