Treading Water

I thought that I would be excited to see Jack after a weekend away with friends in L.A., but I wasn't. I mean, I was for a few seconds. I was happy to see that he was happy to see me, happy to smell his boyish, yeasty smell, happy to see his little brown eyes and his big, apple-shaped head. But along with all of that came the panic and the hollow-chested feeling that makes breathing hard to do. Along with his sweet, musty smell came the despair of knowing that I am totally alone in the caregiving of this child, that I am responsible for his needs, that it will be only me who will change his every diaper, answer his every cry, take away every dangerous object out of his hand today. Like the plastic bag he just came into the room carrying.

I am overwhelmed by his needs and ashamed at how little I enjoy meeting them. I hate that I hate motherhood. I hate all of the books that say, "Ask your husband to do this or that when you are feeling overwhelmed and tired." I don't have a goddamn husband. I wish I did, but only because then I would have someone to shoulder the responsibility for this little being of light.

I don't know what to do or how to move forward. I need someone to come and take care of me as I take care of Jack, someone to say, "Okay, now, it's time to eat. Then it will be nap time until four and then you need to go grocery shopping and here's the list." I feel pressure to make a decision about my life, to decide what's best for me, but I honestly cannot figure that out. Every choice feels scary; I still have Jack wrapped around my ankles, tripping me up.

When I was training to be a lifeguard in high school, I was required to tread water for 10 minutes while holding two, one-gallon milk jugs filled with water above my head. This image comes to mind as I write, of me swimming wildly, my legs kicking and cramping and it's getting dark out here as I hold myself and Jack above my head, above the water. I can't set either one of us down, but if I hold on to both I'm bound to get tired.