Motherhood on Shuffle

Imagine a game of poker in which there is no folding, and God is the sole shuffler, cutter, and dealer.

You can’t win without bluffing, and the winner must leave all of their earnings behind.

This game is not just a figment of your imagination.

It’s very real.

And it’s called motherhood.

29

You feel the Depression’s tentacles wrap around your heart on the flight home.

You hope it’s just the Icelandic cold that brought Him upon you, but he’s still here when you get to England.

It could be a short visit. He might not even stay overnight. Or He could make himself at home for months.

You never know with Him.

Your daughter has married.

You sob covertly in the bathroom as you brush your teeth. An empty Zoloft bottle stares at you from the sink, hungry for a refill.

You learned how to keep Him at bay all those years, for her sake.

But she’s gone now, leaving you alone with Him.

A chance He’d been patiently awaiting for decades has finally presented itself, and He hugs you tightly in your sleep, sending you into nightmares about Ena tumbling down Icelandic cliffs, your outstretched hand unable to reach her.

0.1

At first, you think you are only exhausted from the birth. It's only logical — it was the most terrifying, painful, thrilling, ecstatic experience you've ever had.

But it cannot explain the repulsion you feel toward your own baby. You can't bear her constant whining that always gets louder when you take her into your arms. It feels — no, she feels your anxiety, feeding her own anxiety in a vicious circle.

At least that’s what the nurse says.

She tells you to relax. But how can you relax when this scream is piercing your eardrums?

For the umpteenth time, you hand it — no, her! — back to Kyle and go back to sleepless sleep.

Your body is working fine: milk is pouring from your breasts whenever you squeeze your nipples, and with a lot of effort you let her — Ena is her name! — feed from them.

You’re still not quite comfortable with her presence, but the thought of your daughter feeding on someone else’s milk is unbearable to you.

Yet, you spend most of the days in bed, choking in the pungent smell of lavender sticks Kyle’s bought to soothe your nerves, too tired to open the window.

Your GP says you have PPD.

Post Partum Depression, she explains.

It’s quite common, she adds, as if that should comfort you.

She sends you to the psychiatrist, who only confirms the diagnosis and prescribes you some pills.

“It will take two weeks for Zoloft to kick in,” she says. “Until then, be gentle with yourself and take baby steps: getting out of bed, making lunch, showering — all of these are milestones. Remember to tap yourself on the back for each one, and let your mother and Kyle handle the chores while you recover.

“None of them has given birth like you did last week,” she adds with a smile.

Three weeks later, as you breastfeed Ena on the couch, you watch a documentary about ducks and wonder what happens to ducklings if their mother gets PPD.

They don’t say.

16

“Ena, get into the car!”

“Fuck off, Mum!”

You roll the shotgun window further, as if that will make any difference.

“Ena, I swear to God, if you don’t—”

“Hahaha, you swear—” She almost knocks into the street lamp as she laughs at you. She's drunk as a skunk.

“Ena, it's minus eight degrees, and you’re wearing thighs—”

“Like you’ve sworn in the church? For better, for worse, or whatever fuckin’ lie you two’ve said?”

She staggers wildly, but regains her balance.

“Ena, I promise I won’t punish—”

“Hahaha, the perjurer is handing me a promi—”

She slips, disappearing from your view.

Your heart stops beating as you rush around the car to find her sprawled on ice, laughing beside herself.

“Honey, are you—”

But she doesn't hear you, as though she’s entered another dimension. She rolls away from your voice across the snow — thank God, nothing is broken — still cackling hysterically.

She bounces off the foot of the snowman and ends up on her stomach, her face buried in the snow.

She doesn’t move.

You turn her over: she's sobbing uncontrollably, tears mingling with the snow on her face.

“Mum, I’m– I’m so sorry,” she gasps.

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay.”

You land in the snow next to her and stroke her wet hair.

“Have you taken anything other than alcohol?”

She shakes her head. “Only— only tequila,” she stammers through chattering teeth.

“C’mon, let’s take you home!”

You grab her hands and pull her onto her feet. You pull off your jacket and wrap it around her trembling shoulders.

You don’t bother putting a towel under her; the soaked seats of Kyle’s BMW are the last thing on your mind.

10

“We believe that your daughter has a school phobia.”

That's what the school psychologist told you on Tuesday.

School phobia, my ass.

You illegally park in the shade of the rear gate. The wintry sun has already set, and the school playground is completely dark.

She has a bully phobia, bitch.

You pull the parking brake.

And that’s no phobia at all.

You check your watch. Four minutes until the school bell.

You open the trunk and carefully grab the net full of water balloons.

Four nights ago, she came home in tears. It took more than two hours of soothing before she could tell you that Mason and his gang had thrown firecrackers at her and called her a bastard.

Bastards don’t even know the meaning of the word.

On Tuesday, you went to the school psychiatrist.

On Wednesday, you talked to the kids' parents.

“Oh, he’s just messing around,” Mason’s Dad said casually. “But I’ll talk to him,” he added kindly.

Last night, you came to pick her up and try to talk to the bullies themselves, if their parents hadn’t.

But the playground was so dark — all the streetlights were busted — that they didn’t even notice you as their blasts echoed around Ena’s feet.

Loud as they were, they didn’t stop the word “Bastard” from reaching you, stinging your ears more sharply than any firecracker.

The darkness gave you an idea: if they can’t see you, well — they can’t see you.

Water balloons are innocent toys kids throw at each other to wash away the summer heat.

In winter, they can be fatal. For both people and firecrackers.

Little Mason throws the lit firecracker at Ena’s running feet, but there is no explosion. He squints confusedly at the darkness as a water bomb smashes him in the face.

He first screams from shock, then cries in pain, as the icy wind hits his dripping face.

After a couple more defused firecrackers and water bombs smashed into them, the herd of bullies disperses.

You grab Ena's hand and the two of you throw the rest of the balloons at the school’s windows.

No one fucks with your baby.

-0.75

You missed your period. You thought it was only delayed — wouldn’t be the first time — but you are now already in the fertile period, and there’s no more denying it.

Your actions belong to someone else.

You observe as she goes to the pharmacist’s and asks for a pregnancy test.

She neatly opens the cardboard box, cutting the tape with kitchen scissors, and thoroughly reads the instructions: one line — negative, two lines — positive.

She then settles on your couch and turns on the TV. (She doesn't feel the urge to urinate yet, so why force it? That’s not healthy, anyway.)

As the documentary about Diego Maradona draws to its end, she finally gets up and heads to the bathroom.

The second line jolts you brutally back into your body.

You flush the evidence down the toilet, as if that could undo the result.

You want to escape your bodily cage once again, but it’s closing in on you, sucking you into itself.

It’s choking you.

Both of you.

The bathroom spins around you.

You start to tremble uncontrollably.

You are sobbing, rolling around the bathroom floor.

You are screaming, kicking at the couch pillows.

You beat your abdomen. You need to crush this egg, this sin growing inside of you.

But that’s not how it works.

To do it properly, you would have to commit an even greater sin.

But no sin is acceptable.

You scream until your voice breaks, then settle onto the carpet in a fetal position.

Two hours later, you call Kyle and tell him you missed your period. He tells you not to panic, that you were careful with your timing. He says he would buy you one of those tests on his way home, just in case.

You thank him and hang up.

You tell yourself he has a right to step-wise shock absorption, just like you did.

But deep down, you know you didn’t tell him because the spread of this news is the only thing left in your life that you have any control over.

You marry a month later, but it is too late; the rumor has already spread throughout the village, and the word “bastard” follows you everywhere you go. No one tells it to your face, but you can tell from their expressions what they were talking about right before you entered the room, be it school, hospital, or hairdresser’s.

It’s on the day of your Fifth Sacrament that you lose your faith completely. It didn't happen overnight, of course, but as you listen to the priest preaching to you to obey your Man at any cost, you realize that this community has caused you more harm than good.

More judgment than support.

More condemnation than condoning.

Only because you did what they encouraged you to do, but at the wrong time.

Fuck them.

It’s the first time you've sworn without repenting.

Out loud, you say, “I do.”

3

You slip into her room.

Kyle's rosary at the bottom of the crib temporarily distracts you from your objective. You quickly pocket it, making a mental note to tell him how dangerous the object is for your baby, both physically and mentally.

She sits upright on her pillow, squishing her plush bunny, Bunbun. As soon as her tiny eyes land on you, she drops the bunny and reaches both arms toward you.

“Mhmh,” she mumbles, the word smothered by the object in her mouth.

“Hey, honey-bunny.”

You grab her from the crib and gently set her on your lap. The PPD days have faded into memory now, and there is nothing in the world you like more than cradling your baby girl.

“You ready for a story?”

“Mhmh,” she repeats, nodding excitedly. That’s the only word she knows.

You let her open the picture book, then start reading.

“Once upon a time, there were three little piggies who set out to build their own homes—”

Ena’s wide-open eyes are rapidly scanning the pictures, absorbing all the details.

“Yes, that’s a bad wolf, woof-woof!”

“Mhmh!”

“And that is the piggies' tail, you know, how your Bunbun also has a tail?”

“And that is a fireplace, so they don't get cold in the winter.”

“And this is straw, what Moo-Moo eats.”

As the three piggies gather in the brick house to enjoy their happily-ever-after, Ena giggles so hard that the object falls out of her mouth and slides into your lap. You quickly pocket it.

“And so the story ends.”

You slowly close the book and lay her back in the crib.

“Mama!” she cries as you are about to leave the room.

You inwardly roll your eyes, afraid of another mission failure. Twelfth in a row.

But her hands are reaching for Bunbun, who fell out of the crib when you lifted her out.

You pick up the plush bunny and hand it to her. She erupts into happy coos.

There is still hope.

You tuck her in again and turn off the lights.

You're about to leave when a sound startles you. You freeze in your tracks.

It's a new sound, and it takes you a few moments to understand what you're hearing.

Ena’s snoring.

It's the cutest sound you've ever heard.

You silently wipe tears from your cheeks and gratefully touch the contents of your pocket.

Not the rosary, but the stolen dummy.

Mission accomplished.

It used to be only about the missions, back when you were wrestling Him, and every chore was a challenge.

But motherhood has become more to you since: a life quest, which is — yes — often exhausting, boring, painful, and fucking, fucking hard, but one which you look back upon with pride and joy, full of delicate, priceless moments, too beautiful to be ignored, yet often underappreciated in the havoc of endless chores.

You watch your baby girl turn over in her sleep, imagining her dream of the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf as she drools on her favorite Bunbun, her snores echoing through her chamber.

Perhaps there is no happily-ever-after, but some snapshots stay with us until our very end.

The image of Ena snoring through her first dummy-free sleep is one such moment for you.

24

His name is Arnar, and she only introduces him to you after the engagement. You choose to ignore the pain it causes you, clinging to an illusion of choice.

If you told her how much her distance hurt you lately—

You aren’t sure how to finish that sentence. What would happen if you told her?

Whatever it was, it wouldn't bring her closer.

You don't care too much for Arnar. For you, he's just a man who will seal the Distance deal, tying her to Iceland for good.

You remember being mad at your Mum when she treated Kyle the same way. You thought she was indifferent to your future, that she just didn't care.

But now you understand her better. There is no choice left for you two, not even an illusion.

Kyle was a successful real estate agent, and Arnar is a co-director of a large salmon factory — their facades are impeccable, and their interiors unreachable, so what is there to say?

33

Tia is crying loudly as Ena changes her diaper. She has a small tuft of Arnar’s blonde hair and Kyle's pointed nose.

They named your granddaughter after your mum, which you found both ridiculous and flattering.

“Arnar will work from home on Mondays and Tuesdays, and I on Thursdays and Fridays,” Ena tells you, throwing away the spoiled diaper. “So we'll need you to babysit her only on Wednesdays.”

You know Ena didn't invite you to Iceland only to babysit her daughter once a week; she could afford a babysitter every day of the week with her and Arnar’s pay.

But you have outgrown your pride, and have accepted your daughter's offer to escape His rule of lonesome England both-handedly, honored by the privilege of living in their house and watching your grandchild grow; to enjoy the motherhood once more as an observer, savouring all the little moments you missed with Ena and only came to appreciate retrospectively with age.

“Maybe there is a happy-ever-after after all,” you think to yourself, passing your daughter a clean diaper.