Postcards From the Ledge

It wasn’t that Hubz and I were trying to get pregnant. In fact, we had always been content keeping our family to the nice round number of two. After 13 years of marriage without even a pregnancy scare, babies didn’t seem to be in the cards, and that was OK. We were happy with the way things were.

Our families stopped asking, and we settled into being the couple without kids. Hubz traveled and made music, and I worked as an entertainment writer. We went to the gym regularly and watched foreign movies. We took vacations and spent long, lazy Saturday mornings drinking Italian roast coffee and talking about our dreams.

We went to dinner and quietly judged people for bringing their noisy brats to restaurants — breathing a sigh of relief that that wasn’t us.

When I turned 40, I threw myself a great big Hello Kitty birthday party and flew to New York City for a weekend of shopping, shows, and great food.

And then ...

Not long after I returned from New York, something unusual happened. Or rather, it was the thing that hadn’t happened that was cause for alarm. Let’s just say this normally composed working girl found herself in the ladies room staring at not one but two pregnancy tests — both unequivocally positive.

The way I remember it now is one of the tests said in giant blue letters “YOU ARE PREGNANT” and the other said “YOU ARE 40.”

I called Hubz from the stall and then went back to work. I was 40 and pregnant. And not at all sure how I felt about that.

The pregnancy was in all ways healthy. Despite nausea, acid reflux, puffy feet, and a generally cranky disposition, I had little reason to complain, all things considered. Hubz seemed completely at peace with the unexpected news, whereas I sat and rubbed my expanding belly each night worrying about how much older I’d be than the other kids’ moms. I tried not to think about PTA meetings and swim parties, and how each year was taking me closer to being, well, super old.

I started seeing pregnant women everywhere. They looked young and cute and fresh-faced in their Pea in a Pod maternity dresses. They beamed with anticipation as they strolled the aisles at Target, selecting items for their baby shower registries.
I, on the other hand, just felt big and round and ridiculous. When I visualized my kid’s high school graduation, I imagined the other moms congregated on the campus lawn wearing elegant spring dresses and sunglasses, while I leaned on my walker, hunched and withered, wearing a great big chrysanthemum corsage.

Anyway.

When little Jack Henry arrived, he was bean-baggish and big-headed with blue eyes and a gorgeous shock of blond hair. In other words, he was beautiful and healthy and absolutely perfect.

But for the first few weeks, I just couldn’t connect with the reality that was now my life. I’d had the better part of a year to mentally prepare for this new role in Mommyhood. But now that the little booger was here, I didn’t know what to do with him.

Literally.

Like, when he cried, I cried too.

I looked at the stacks of brand new receiving blankets and Onesies and footy pajamas festooned with smiling ducks and frogs and monkeys, and through the fog of Percoset, post-partum depression, and sleep deprivation, I recognized a conspiracy afoot.
All the people who brought me these gifts were in on the lie: Being a mom was an impossible task for a selfish 40-year-old like me. I didn’t deserve this little guy. And I would most certainly fail.

But instead of warning me, people just smiled and lied and brought me more grinning froggy burp cloths.

My mom stayed for the first two weeks, and when it was time for her to go, I put on a brave face. The Percoset was all gone, and I was tired. Very tired. During the late night feedings I looked at this sweet, blessed baby and prayed I could do this ... that this was going to be OK.

Days and nights began to run together. I wore the same clothes for a week straight. I slept when the baby slept and cried when the baby cried. It was supposed to be getting easier. Heck, I should have been on cloud-freakin-nine by now, if I were to believe the other mommies in my life.

And then ...

My big sister Charlotte arrived. She’d purposely waited to come until after the initial influx of visitors left, figuring that’s when I’d be in need of some real help. And man, was she right.

Like a blond, tan Mary Poppins on steroids, she assessed the situation in short order. She sent me straight to the shower while she whipped up some stir fry and threw the sheets into the wash. She opened the windows and lit candles and cuddled the little bean bag like he was her own. She’d brought gifts for Jack Henry, but she also brought a little something for me. Something no one else thought to bring. And believe it or not, that little something changed everything. What was it?
Lip gloss.

I know that seems odd. Lip gloss? Changed everything?

Well, it was the beginning of change, or as I like to think of it, “The day I took a shower, washed my hair, put on make-up, and felt sort of good about myself, and looked in the mirror and thought, maybe I can do this.”

Lip gloss can do that. Especially when you’ve kind of given up on life in general and bathing in particular. Having a sister who’d had a streak of post-partum depression was handy too. We talked about the tears, and she helped me put together a plan. She convinced me to ask my doctor about medication and encouraged me to avail myself of my employer’s free counseling services.

She even got me to leave the house with the tiny baby in tow. We can do this, she said. It’s just a little car ride, she said. And you know what? She was right. We took little Jack Henry to the grocery store and bought Snickers bars and People magazines and laughed while we struggled to get that dang infant car seat locked into place.

When she left, I cried. But not because I was still terrified of being a 40-year-old mommy of a 3-week-old baby. I cried because I hadn’t realized before what a great sister I had. Not to mention all of the other people in my life who had been there all along, willing me to succeed at this beautiful new life I’d been given.

These days, I’m a 45-year-old mother of a preschooler, and I still marvel at how far I have come. I’ve not only caught on to this whole being-a-mommy thing, but I actually love it.

Now, I’m not gonna say the age thing doesn’t give me pause from time to time. When I take the boy to the park and I see the cute, perky 20-something moms with their belly rings and tattoos, I recognize that among my new peer group, I’ll probably always be the “older mom” of the bunch.

But I also realize just how lucky I am (and my boy is, too) that I’ve already gotten to do so many great things in life before becoming a mom; that I have the benefit of knowing who I am; and that I have a wonderful family support system and a steady, secure job that I love.

Not that I’m all out of dreams, of course, but I’ve fallen head over heels in love with my little guy, and my every waking moment is spent figuring out how I can make his life better. I don’t know if I could have done that 10 or 15 years ago.

Now, when I visualize Jack Henry’s graduation day, I imagine myself right there among the other moms, all of us teary-eyed and proud, cheering our kids on.

You can bet I’ll be wearing an elegant spring dress and sunglasses, my dear. And you guessed it — lip gloss.

Joan Brasher is a full-time editor at one of Nashville's private universities, a cupcake connoisseur, and an avid blogger (blogofjoan.blogspot.com). Her favorite lip gloss is M*A*C Plushglass in Ample Pink.