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Beau’s got Maisie strapped in her carrier on his chest, and he’s holding her tiny, socked feet in his enormous man hands.
Another image I’ll never forget.
Those keep coming lately.
“I give women all the credit in the world,” he says, shaking his head. “What y’all have to go through—you’re on your own for so much of it—Bel, it’s a fucking crime. But if you’re feeling this way, then a lot of other new moms are, too. Being open about it all, that’s not a trend you’re gonna start. But it is one you can participate in.”
“I’m on it. I’ve been thinking about setting up a women’s group at the bank—a forum, maybe. Something about postpartum depression, or…I don’t know. Motherhood in general.”
“You’d be great at that.” He looks at me. “I’ve noticed there’s a little more pep in your step recently. As much as I want to take credit—”
“I don’t hate the sex.”
“You’re welcome. But yeah, I can tell. The light in your eyes is back.”
I turn my face up to the sky and soak up the warmth of the springtime sun, closing my eyes for a second.
“The Zoloft is making a huge difference. But so is spending time with you. Exercising. Maisie’s sleeping through the night pretty consistently now, and that smile…” I open my eyes with a sigh. Beau grabs a big branch that hangs over the path and holds it up, letting me pass underneath it before following me himself. “It’s the perfect storm of good things, I guess. I’m starting to feel like myself again for more than an hour at a time. Finally.”
“That’s awesome. I’m proud of you, Bel. You stuck it out, and now you get to reap the rewards. Remember what I said—you got this.”
I reach for him, and he threads his fingers through mine.
“I’m learning to give myself a little grace,” I say. “Now that I’m kinda-sorta out of survival mode, I can think about the bigger picture. Letting go of what I thought motherhood should be, and embracing what it actually is, is something I’m working on with my therapist.”
I think about the things she’s told me over the course of our sessions. How I don’t need to be perfect to be loved, and how I don’t need to do things perfectly to be considered a good mom. How I need to go easier on myself, let up on the pressure I feel to be perfect and productive, so I can enjoy the everyday moments with Maisie more.
“I told you, Bel. Put that perfection shit down. You’re just right, just as you are. Right, Maisie?”
Maisie coos her agreement.
I ponder that for a while. Later, in the shower, I give myself a little pep talk.
Perfect motherhood. Whatever the hell that means.
Put it down.
Bouncing back to my pre-baby weight and shape.
Put it down.
Breastfeeding for a year even though I hate it and it drains me.
Put it down.
Being who the world pressures me to be.
Put. It. Fucking. Down.
The words are brave. Braver than I feel. But there’s a spark of faith in me, of light, that makes me think if I practice putting down shit that doesn’t serve me, I can kinda-sorta get there. Maybe.
There is no such thing as mastery in this arena.
Maybe that’s the hardest lesson of all. A lesson life keeps trying to teach me. About my career, my relationships. Love and money and friendship. That mastery, and happiness, aren’t destinations. You don’t just arrive there at thirty-something and stay forever.
Knowledge and happiness are about becoming. Blooming, dying, trying again. Learning and unlearning. Failing. Failing again and again and again until you get it right.
How you learn to enjoy that process, I don’t know.
One thing I do know? Beau’s helped me get here, to this semi-normal state. His patience, his guidance, his generosity have all been wonderful. Like always.
It’s gonna wreck me if our friendship ends when my stay at the farm does.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Beau
On the day Bel is supposed to go back to Charlotte, I’m up before the sun.
I make a pot of coffee and drink cup after cup of it, black, at the kitchen table. No shirt because Bel’s wearing it.
I watch the sunrise break over the mountains.
I’m no poet, but I can’t help but think my heart’s breaking along with it.
I look up at the sound of light footfalls on the family room carpet. Bel pads over to me in nothing but that shirt of mine, looking as beat up as I feel with swollen eyes and lips and hair all over the place.
I look away, too ashamed, too sad to meet her gaze.
I move to get up. “I’ll make—”
“I got it. You sit.” Her voice is thin. “The sunrise is pretty today.”
Her spoon clanks against the sides of her mug as she stirs in a good pour of half and half and one teaspoon of sugar.
