I’ve never celebrated anything with half of my siblings.
The two youngest and I were together for all of the Christmases, birthdays and Hallmark holidays that we could squeeze into the single year that I lived with my mom before I moved out on my own, but my oldest baby sisters have rarely been in the same room as I have, and never during a holiday.
In July, I saw my youngest baby sister for the first time in over a decade, and on my way to Chicago, I met my oldest baby sister for the first time. On Sunday, I got my shit together and hopped on a ferry with Zoë to stay overnight with my 2nd oldest baby sister and her boyfriend.
And her kittens.
And my niece.
There are literally almost no words – I know, you’re shocked – to describe how relaxed and special and like home I felt there. It wasn’t like I was a stranger, visiting family, which usually would be a word dripping with scorn and bringing about a feeling akin to what I imagine a man feels, two hours after getting sacked.
I got to be with this 2nd youngest sister on her birthday, to spend less than 24-hours in her presence, but to soak up so much. I got in the taxi to go back to the ferry and I felt contented, assured, at peace and most of all, accepted.
When I had Zoë, cogs and teeth aligned and cast off of each other, ultimately causing my life to change in different ways than most mothers I’ve come across would mean. Yes, I had a baby and that meant that everything in my life changed, just like every other parent’s did, but it really comes down to this: I had a baby and everything (nearly) about me changed.
No more was there a need to get drunk, often, or to wake and bake on the days when I wasn’t expected at work.
No longer was the money in my pocket incidental, because I now have to be aware of this other person constantly, who requires more than a meal a day of ramen.
I couldn’t spent days in bed with depression and I couldn’t stay awake for others in mania.
I had to become selective about the people I let in my life, because some of the characters I’d met before pregnancy – the ones who were often a source of amusement and easy to replace should the need arise – simply weren’t trustworthy or stable, not people that I might feel safe having my daughter exposed to.
I used to have to watch my mouth because not only are eff-bombs unladylike, she started dropping them before she was two. I’ve had to be selective about language, because I always want to instill in her the ability to label a behaviour, not a person.
I’ve had to learn to make amends, to change patterns, to forget and to forgive, because if I didn’t, she’d miss some integral people to her life and I would still be holding a grudge from the first time she intentionally punched me in the face.
I’ve had to come to terms with my relationship with my father, and mother, and her father and grandmother. I’ve had to place bandaids over some fissures, but I’ve also caulked in others, making the surface shiny and smooth again, learning how the crack came to be. I’ve had to take the rage and channel it elsewhere, even if that elsewhere was simply the air outside, as I inhaled and exhaled a cigarette.
I’ve dropped the hippy ideals that I walked into motherhood with, for the most part, and come to accept averageness as okay. I no longer expect to have the most well-behaved, focused, intelligent, talented child – and with that acceptance, I’ve come to realize that she can be, sometimes, the most well-behaved, focused, intelligent, talented child out of her peers. Because every kid, including mine, has their moments.
Most of all, I’ve had to let go of the old me. The eating disorder. The self-blame at every turn. The immense guilt for not being perfect. The need to have a clean home and above-and-beyond parenting at the expense of relationships, sleep and sanity. The overwhelming inability to drop something, even if I’m the rightest in the conflict.
My sister turned 20 on Monday. She had a baby a month ago. During her pregnancy, she got her shit together and cleaned up her life. She’s got a nice home and a boyfriend she loves, who loves her. She’s figuring it out as she goes along, just like I had to do, but she’s doing it quicker than I did – maybe because she’s missing a few of the barriers that I had, or maybe because she’s simply growing up better than I will when I’m done growing up. She’s overcoming what, to some, is impossible. She’s devoted to her life, boyfriend and baby. She’s looking for more instead of enough or less.
I’m so proud of her. Babies are such magical little healing creatures.
