Baby Sister: May, 2008

I didn’t really expect it to affect me as much as it did.

Simone was with me for the weekend, but we knew that her mom was probably going to be induced sometime Sunday, and that Simone would go back to her yellow house Sunday evening as a big sister. But that’s all we knew. Simone was in high hover from Friday on, waiting to hear news—any news.

We spent that Sunday driving around town trying to find a suitable baby present from both of us, but it happened to be Easter, and everything seemed to be closed. We finally happened upon a K-Mart a few miles from home. Simone picked out a really cute combination baby blanket/plush toy/rattle for her new sibling. She asked if she could have one for herself, too, to sleep with at night, and I didn’t have the heart to argue with her.

No phone call came Sunday; only a text from her mother to ask if I’d drop Simone off by 5:30, rather than wait for her to be picked up. When we arrived at the house, Simone’s maternal grandfather came out the door, hugged Simone and shook my hand. He didn’t offer any information, so I asked if there was news.

“Yep,” he said with a big smile, “Simone has a baby sister!” Simone whooped and ran into the house to see her grandmother, hardly waving goodbye. I asked about everyone’s health, and the grandfather said that baby and mother were well, and I walked to my car and drove off.

The sun was shining as I drove home past closed stores and restaurants. I felt rocked and empty. It was the usual pang—the vacuum of post-Simone quiet that affects me every Sunday after one of our weekends together—combined with an uneasy impression that I was alone. Really really alone. Simone was off with her other family; all I had was a silent apartment and an emotionally needy cat.

I picked up Simone that Wednesday afternoon to spend the last couple days of spring break with me—I was surprised to be invited into the house to see the baby. Simone’s stepfather was holding her, and he was the one who suggested I come in.

The house had the hushed combination of expectation, excitement and convalescence you only find in a home with a new life in it. Everyone spoke sotto voce, but everyone was happy. The father held his daughter out to me, and his pride and contentment was palpable. I could only feel happy for him; the sleeping child in his arms was tiny and pink and a beauty. She wasn’t mine, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit of affection for this little girl—my daughter’s baby sister.

The grandparents were kind to me, and Simone’s mom emerged for just a second as Simone and I left the house. What had been an abstract set of emotions became concrete for me, as I felt the real separation between my life and the life of this family, which was in tact, a unit, complete.

I buckled Simone into the backseat of the car, and kissed her again and again on her face and forehead before shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side of the car.

I am so happy for Simone. She is going to be a wonderful big sister, and she deserves to have a sibling or two. My joy for Simone—as I sit here writing this at my own baby sister’s kitchen table in San Francisco, after spending a hilarious weekend with both of my darling sibs—is without reservation. I am utterly pleased for my daughter to experience the joys and frustrations of a sister.

But I did feel something else; a combination of emotions that took me a few weeks to sort out—that I’m still sorting out. And my uneasy footing, following my emotional response to the new baby, along with amazing-yet-intense developments for my work situation, led me to push away the Peach as I staggered around, trying to find stable ground.

Let me make this very clear—I don’t wish I was the one who’d had a baby with Simone’s mom. There’s no residual longing to put our family back together. No, I want a family of my own some day, and seeing the unity in Simone’s other home made me feel hopeless for my own future; as if the possibility of having another baby was just too remote, considering the relationship seesaw I was riding—which happened, by the way, to be powered by my own lack of confidence. It was self-sabotage that grew stronger in an endless feedback cycle—hopelessness begetting confusion begetting more hopelessness.

That sadness was combined with a feeling of separation from Simone—that she had this whole family, with a little sister, and an entire subset of life experiences that was totally divided from me. She had her family, and she had her dad, and a Chinese wall had been built between us. I felt pathetic—like I couldn’t match what she was getting in her yellow house.

That the collateral damage of this spiral didn’t spread beyond me squandering the trust and love of someone who truly adored me and turn into something larger than I could handle was due to a few simple, yet important, components. I have a ton of work to do, with more clients tapping me for help; I have an amazing group of friends who wouldn’t let me withdraw from the world, no matter how hard I tried; I have parents and sisters who only want me to be happy; and I’m responsible for the health and wellbeing of a truly magical 8-year-old, whom I adore.

It also turned out that Simone’s new situation with her other family made her relationship with me much more vital. I have no doubt that Simone is getting plenty of attention at the yellow house, and she has not exhibited even the tiniest amount of unease or jealousy about her little sister. But I can tell that she revels in my undivided attention. I’m happy to be there for her.

A couple weeks ago, she crawled onto my lap on the couch, and asked me to hold her “like a baby.” So I pulled this 60-pound child into my arms and held her close. She asked me to stand up, and I did, kissing her forehead and making cooing sounds while rocking her back and forth. She closed her eyes and relaxed her body, a sweet, content smile on her lips. She just needed to be a baby for a few minutes.

So now I’ll pick her up unbidden and hold her just like that, telling her I love her, and giving her kisses. I know this phase won’t last forever, so I don’t mind giving her the treatment she craves. At 8 years old, Simone is growing up so quickly.

So I’m not actually all alone, and there’s still time for me to build a new family. There’s time for me to work through my stupidity and bad habits. And even if I don’t get to have more children in my life, I have Simone. Our relationship is profound and secure, and it is fortified with love.

We’re going to be okay.

Comments

[Tim Taylor]

Eric,

This post is absolutely beautiful. I have a 7 year old daughter whose mom is in a relationship and candidly, I've given a ton of thought to how I would feel or what it would mean if she were to have another child.

All of what you've written feels really genuine. Some of what you've written feels a little scary to me. I know that vacuous solitude when I drop my daughter off and can see how it may be potentially amplified if and when she has a new sister or brother.

You touched me deeply, thanks bud.

Tim

[Col. Hector Bravado]

Lovely.