Transported by song

As I drove home from visiting a friend, the fragrance of cumin and Indian spices clinging to my skin, my belly full, but my mind somewhat distracted, “July” by Lily Williams began to play on my car stereo. And suddenly, I was transported to the first time I had heard her sweet, gentle voice.

I was back there in that hospital room, freshly showered and in my white dress, the one covered with little red and orange flowers, my skin sallow and sitting gingerly in a chair by the window that overlooked a cemetery. My newborn son was sleeping peacefully in the clear plastic bassinet they assigned him, wearing that ugly little pink and blue striped hat they give all the babies. I still have it tucked away somewhere.

I was waiting. Waiting for my husband to come get us. Waiting for the newborn photographer to come back, since her first visit had been while I was naked in the shower. A shower I wasn’t even sure I was allowed to take, because who would watch the baby? To ease my anxiety, I had pulled his little rolling bassinet close to the bathroom door and showered with the door open so I could keep an eye on him.

To pass the time and block my loneliness and newly-alone-with-a-baby-fear (and also, I was annoyed my husband was taking so long to come back, so I was trying to block that too), I opened my Instagram, and passed a reel with that song playing, asking us to “let July, just be July.” The song hooked me and I pulled it up on Spotify and played it on repeat until the photographer came back and wrapped my baby boy in different swaddles, taking pictures of him this way and that. Eventually, my husband came and we took photos as a new family of three. Not long after, we went home together.

I’m sure I’ve shared before, but my entrance into motherhood was a major shock. It felt like someone had dropped me into a mountain lake, and I could hardly catch my breath or tread water from the shock of the cold water. When I think about having another baby, I think about how my son was born. I think about all the challenges we faced, the difficulties with breastfeeding, the years of interrupted nights of sleep, the challenging behaviour he developed in the fall last year that we are still working through, not to mention all the miscarriages, or the terrible nausea of my most recent pregnancy. Everything was so hard from the very beginning, and it’s often felt like we were on our own, and that I had to shout with a megaphone to get a hand.

I have vacillated often on whether I even want anymore children. Before I got married, I wanted five to seven children. Now, I feel like I can barely manage the one I have. I’m hesitant to embark on a journey that repeats all the difficulties of the last three years. Not to say that there weren’t some truly wonderful, beautiful moments, because there have been many, but no one tries to avoid beautiful moments. We love to look at roses, but if we’ve been pricked by a thorn, we’re not going to just go grabbing roses from the bush again.

Anyway, since I haven’t conceived in almost nine months, I’ve been trying to content myself with the thought that I’ll just have one child. Little Lion is so precious to me that I can’t even envision loving another baby in any comparable measure. Honey Badger once told me that he would love the new baby enough for both of us, which is nice, I guess.

But as I was driving home from visiting my friend, the sweet, crooked tooth smile of her baby nephew was fixed in my mind. He was so easy and light to carry. My son played gently with him and included him in some of his games. Holding the baby and playing with him reminded me that I do very much want another baby. A desire I have been holding at arm’s length to protect myself. And when I was transported back to that moment in the hospital room, watching my newborn son and listening to a sweet song, it just added another layer to that desire of my heart.

As I reflected on the good moments with Little Lion, when breastfeeding finally went right (spoiler, he still loves to nurse), which he started rolling, then crawling, then walking, then speaking… The cute things he says, and the stories he tells us now. When he asks to sing, and the song he chooses is the lullaby I wrote for him. Those things. I would love to repeat all of those things. To say my son has been the delight of my life would be an understatement. I’ve just been ill-equipped to handle some of the challenges that motherhood brings, especially the being alone part. But I would never wish away becoming his mother. And I would do all that again.

I suppose that’s all I have for now. Just some reflections from my ponderous mind. Music is so powerful. Where do your songs take you?

Sierra