I never understood those mothers that treat their babies like they’re animals. They coo in ridiculously high voices and twirl they fingers in front of the baby’s face. Isn’t it simple courtesy to your baby to treat him human?
I don’t talk to him like I heard my mother talk to my sister those years ago, when I was an angry teenager with jagged hair and Mom kept wanting a new baby to have another chance. I sit him on my lap and I play with his cloudy curls and listen to him laugh and I talk to him ceaselessly, because I want him to grow up understanding his Mommy and why she cries at night and why she spits blood even when she tries to hide it, and why she holds him all the time.
“You know what that old woman who lives next door told me when she saw my belly? Oh yes, my belly. That was you, baby. You were in my belly. That’s what happens with babies and mommies. You were in my belly for a while because this is a scary, scary world, and you just had to get used to it because mommies can prepare you for everything. And then you come out and you know what to do because mommy already told you about how scary the world is. No, I was lying. Mommies can’t prepare you for everything. Some mommies just don’t want to, but Baby, I promise to teach you everything I know, even though it is very little. I promise not to lie anymore, alright? Because lying is a trademark of the world, and the more we lie, the more we resemble each other, and being like everyone else isn’t very good, is it? Oh, I never told you what Miss White Hair told me when she first saw you in my belly. She has these very blue eyes, baby. Maybe you can see her soon, and then you can tell me how blue they are. They’re so blue they’re almost invisible, and I bet you she saw through my belly and saw you sleeping inside and she knew what a good baby you will be. She told me, ‘Honey don’t worry. Babies are beautiful because they aren’t really people yet. For a while, all you will smell when you kiss your baby is milk and innocent sleep, and when he looks at you with his grey eyes he will only show you trust, and when he holds your hand it’ll be to make you happy, not to break your fingers with his anger. Love him, Honey, because he is too young to understand.’ Funny, she seemed to say it as though you would stop loving me when you grew up.”
Some things are very unfair, don’t you see? And some things are ironic, so ironic they become sickeningly painful. I still smell his scent on my pillow every time I put my head down, and I miss him, his warmth and the way we would lie in the bathtub together, looking at the cracked tiles on the ceiling like every little hole and splinter was a star. But he left, understand? And he never said a word. He didn’t take anything either, because I have checked the house too many hundreds of times and nothing was missing but him, and that was more than enough. I still remember him though. Why? I can’t throw out the pillow where the scent of his hair still lingers, and yet he left the house without a photograph. Ironic, isn’t it?
“This? This is my hand. This is my right hand, and you are holding it maybe because it has a pretty green ring on the one, two, third finger. Well, it isn’t really green. It’s chartreuse, maybe. Or viridian, or verdigris. So many names, right? Did you know that Eskimos have thirty two ways to say snow in their language? Or how Jews have even more funny ways to say jerk? I think I know some of them, because turns out Miss White Hair knows Yiddish. See how old she is? And the older you are, the wiser you are. Schmuck. Now there’s a funny one. Schmendrik. Putz. Schlepper. Hahaha, you’re laughing too? I knew you would find it funny. So when you grow up, instead of being mean and cursing at someone you don’t like, just call them a schmuck, and no one will argue. Anyway. Why can’t we have so many words for something? Imagine. We ran out of the creativity to create words so we have to reuse them to describe such different things and only cover it up with the excuse of ‘spelling’. And the Eskimos have the imagination to create thirty two names for snow! I feel ashamed. Do you feel ashamed? Maybe you can create new words. I used to do that when I was younger. I made up my own language but nobody understood me. Will you share your language with me? Please do. Mommy wants to know it.”
Sometimes, when I feel very ill, I am afraid for him. What will happen to him if I am gone? Really, I’m not afraid of dying, but what will happen to him if I disappear? I don’t want him to be taken care of by a mean Mommy who does not hold him all the time and stays by his crib at night to watch his dreams and chase away the nightmares with her breath. What if his new Mommy doesn’t like patting giggling bellies or smoothing little feet? And what if he forgets me? The scariest part about death is that people forget. They might promise to forever remember you, and of course, they do some of the time when something reminds them of you. But there are those little moments when something funny happens, or something beautiful, like a sunset, or a baby first learns how to walk, and people just have to forget. Then what happens to your soul?
“I promised not to lie, right? Well, baby, I didn’t want you at first. Please, please don’t hate me and understand me first. I was afraid. I was scared that I would not be a good mother, and of course, there were the selfish reasons. What will happen to my freedom? Haha, yes I am laughing now because I can’t believe I actually thought of something as stupid as that. Oh, stupid? That’s a not very nice word, honey, but you must as well know. It’s almost the same as schmuck. Yes, I was a schmuck once. I’m sorry. You know what made me think? One day, I was looking in the bathroom mirror and I was looking at my eyes, and I watched my pupils dance as I told myself truths and lies. That’s what pupils do, honey. They grow big and small if you lie to yourself. So, I told myself. ‘I don’t want a baby’. And they grew huuuuge! Yes, baby, laugh, they grew so big that my eyes turned black, and then they shrank and disappeared. That’s how I knew that I really wanted you.”
So much coughing. I try not to cough around him, but sometimes my throat just rips and pieces of my lungs fall out. He is such a good baby, so quiet, but I can tell he is afraid. I don’t want him to be afraid of me, but the meanness is ripping out my throat. I hold him and I let him watch me cry and he just holds my hair with his little hand, and I think about how much I love him.
“You like my hair, baby? I always put conditioner in it, to make it soft, and pretty. Like yours! Yes, just like yours. Oh, these on my cheek? These are called tears, baby. Tears come out when you cry. You cry when you’re sad. Or in your case, when you’re hungry, or sleepy, or nervous, or your pants are wet. Don’t worry. You’ll learn to talk soon. Oh, here comes another tear. Here, catch it! Don’t let it run away, or your wishes won’t come true. Why am I crying? I’m afraid, honey. But don’t worry about it. Things will get better. I promise. Oh, baby. I wish someone would have told me when I was like you that things will get better. But close your eyes, yes, sleep. I promise, things will get better.”
They took me into a screaming white truck with a metal bed and plastic sheets. I screamed for my baby, but they took him away, and promised that they would give him back. But promises are never kept. I coughed and I screamed until I coughed more than I screamed, and I knew that Miss White Hair had called them to take me away, because our walls were so thin and she heard me cough every time I sang to him or drank my tea or showered. I’m not mad at her. But I want it to end.
Hey, baby. Yes, I’m here. Don’t be afraid. Oh, no, don’t cry. Don’t be like me and spend your life crying. That never works, really. Smile, baby. Don’t be a schmuck like me. Yes, yes laugh! Always say that word and laugh, because that is what people really are and that is what your Mommy was. So, don’t cry alright? I promise it will get better, everything will be alright. My beautiful baby, you will touch my face again with your pretty little hands, and you will never feel my tears again, I promise. I just have to get better, and things will be okay. But for now, just keep smiling. Alright? Smile, smile, smile. I will always be here, and sometime soon we will talk again and I will tell you
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