It’s Friday, which means it’s time for another excerpt from one of my books! Woo-hoo!
Today’s excerpt is from So Like Us, which is one of the most honest books I’ve ever written. It’s about family, about marriage, about ministry, and about motherhood. This part picks up with Charity thinking back to when she gave birth and how those first few days at home with a new baby were so different than what she’d imagined they would be. Been there, done that, y’all. There are so many uncomfortable but real truths in Charity’s story, and it’s one of my favorites because of that.
It also ended up leading to three more books – Destination Wedding, You and Me, Baby, and What a Christmas. So, if the conclusion to So Like Us leaves you saying “no way!”… well, the story continues. (And if you’ve read it before, you know that So Like Us has no secondary characters in the long run. Ahem.)
If you’re new to Jenn Faulk books and want a complete listing of all the titles and the order they were written in, go here for descriptions, pictures, and links.
Happy reading, friends…
You would think there would have been harsh words following that admission. Or non admission, since John heard what I said but never conceded it either way.
You’re in love with her.
I’d said it. Come right out and said it, waiting for him to tell me something to disprove it, something to affirm it, something…
But there were no words. He simply shook his head as he took an exhausted, irritated breath and… well, then he turned his back to me and settled in to go to sleep.
I know what you’re thinking. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that, right? To just dismiss me, dismiss us, and go on. Especially after all those promises we made when we were young about how we would never go to bed angry and all, about how we would talk it out, about how we were going to totally rock this marriage thing.
But sometimes there just aren’t enough hours in a night to get past anger and to talk through all the issues. It’s still a victory, sleeping in the same bed, even if you’re angry while you do it.
And maybe still being together even with the odds stacked against it… well, maybe that’s its own kind of success.
I know what John would have said had he taken the time to say it. He would have told me I was creating drama where there was none, that he loved me and just me, that I was imagining things, that maybe I was having some issues this far out from Amelia’s birth, that maybe I needed to talk to my doctor —
It made my head hurt, thinking about it all too much. My heart, too, on top of the hurts I was already nursing about how Hope had kept me from this new part of her life, how she had very nearly replaced me with Cammie, how I was pretty much a dispensable part of everyone else’s lives. I’d finally fallen asleep, where my dreams were even worse, with me arriving late to my sister’s wedding, only to find that she was greeting guests alongside my husband and my children, with everyone I loved standing there cheering them all on…
“Mommy?”
My ears are so finely attuned to that voice that I would know it anywhere. I could discern from the sadness in it, the texture of his one word, and the heaviness in it, that Aiden was sick. The one word was enough to wake me up from a groggy sleep. I was in John’s arms, had somehow found my way there halfway, as he’d undoubtedly pulled me the rest of the way, one arm around my waist, the other under my head, his fingers in my hair.
We can go to bed angry, but we’re still married.
Before John could even figure out that we weren’t alone in our room (given that he was still snoring and all — it’s a miracle I’d been able to sleep over that), my feet were on the ground, my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and I was already thinking through all that I needed to do for my son.
“Baby,” I murmured, already halfway to him, “are you okay?”
“I throw-ded up,” he moaned even as I scooped him into my arms and carried him back out of our room, taking care to shut the door so John could still get his sleep.
“I can smell it, sweetheart,” I murmured. And I could feel it, too, on his pajamas, then on the maternity nightgown that I was still wearing post-Amelia because it was the only one that fit my Mommy body. It probably wouldn’t come clean enough now, which would force me into buying new nightgowns (which we couldn’t afford) or getting serious about the weight loss.
Weight loss. Ugh. Yet another thing to add to the to-do list.
“It’s in my bed,” Aiden cried, never guessing how I was mentally doing math in pounds and ounces. “I throw-ded up everywhere. Even on Baby Puppy.”
Oh, mercy. How many times had I washed that ancient stuffed animal, gently scrubbing him and pulling him from the brink of qualifying as hazardous material? I thought about doing it all over again, knowing that Aiden would have no peace ever in life if Baby Puppy bit the dust.
Seriously. He’d be a grown man, sitting at a desk at some high-powered corporate job, losing an account, and weeping, openly weeping all over his expensive Italian suit, “Baby Puppy! It all started going downhill the day that I throw-ded up on Baby Puppy!”
I could not have that happen to my sweet boy.
“Mommy will fix it,” I told him, walking him towards the bathroom. “For now, though, you’re number one. How about I get a bath started for you?”
“Okay,” he moaned pitifully.
As I got him cleaned up, I thought about the history the two of us shared.
John and I had planned him. A child born of choice and effort, Aiden was in our minds and hearts long before he was in my womb.
He’d come along at just the right time, or just the right time as we’d figured it nine months out from his birth. John was nearly through his seminary program, and that far into our marriage, we still felt like newlyweds, spontaneous and adventurous… and meticulously detailed when it came to conceiving a baby.
We knew just when we wanted him to arrive, calculating when John would have his degree, when we’d have our own church, when I’d be able to stay at home and be a mother, something I knew would come completely naturally to me.
It hadn’t happened just exactly like we wanted it to, but a few months into trying, we had a positive pregnancy test, counted the months, and declared it even better. A few months past what we were planning, but it would work. This way, we’d be settled into that new pastorate we were sure we were heading towards. I could spend the summer setting everything up for the baby, making friends, and already scheduling play dates.
We set our sights on that happy time, those precious days, as John raced through the rest of his seminary plan, as we religiously marked every day of the baby’s development on a chart in the kitchen, and as I imagined the most elaborate and gorgeous nursery ever, as John talked to the baby every night with his mouth over my belly, and as we tried and tried to find a church… all to no avail.
It would be okay, though. Surely.
I wasn’t all that sure, but before I could figure it out, Aiden came.
Oh, boy.
Labor was no walk in the park, y’all. I knew it would hurt, had heard enough from friends to know that it would really hurt, but I hadn’t counted on it hurting so much that death seemed a preferable option to continuing on with the pain until I could blessedly, finally push. Then, I pushed too hard and knew pain in an entirely different way, hating John just a little as he stood with the doctor at my feet, looked at all of my business with horror in his eyes, and kept opening and closing his mouth, unable to make any intelligible sounds, like he wasn’t totally responsible for the train wreck that he was witnessing. (So totally responsible.)
Then, they put this ooey gooey mess of a pink, screaming baby on my chest, telling me, “Look at how beautiful he is!” And all I could think was, “He’s gross! Why is he covered in cheese?!” The nurses had to tell me to touch him, to talk to him, cooing at me with understanding, telling one another and John that my horrified expression was probably just shock.
So much has happened today! That’s what they’d said, like this was a good thing, like we’d all look back on this day with happy tears in our eyes.
There were tears in my eyes all right. In the remembrances and in that moment.
Everything hurt. Every part that made me feminine hurt. Every part that had enticed John into recklessly making me a mother was hurtingnow that my child was here. Motherhood hurt. I was dripping everywhere, throbbing everywhere, and aching everywhere, as my new mommy body did things without my consent and the rest of the world moved on and went on without me while I was still trying to figure out what had happened.
John and Aiden were already in on the plan, though, and seemed to know just exactly what to do. John with the pills and the comforting words, the witty banter he used to entertain visitors who came to see us, and the quick diaper changes. Aiden with his clockwork feeding and wetting, breast to changing table, bloody nipples for Mom, poopy pants for him. Happy, happy, happy.
Content. He was content. John was content.
And I was screaming on the inside. Trying to claw my way out of my mommy body, thinking of how life had changed forever… for the worse.
We’d left the hospital with great fanfare. Well, great fanfare from the grandparents, who took turns taking selfies of themselves with the baby, while I hung back in the shadows, sitting on my boppy pillow and fighting the urge to cry, considering, very honestly considering, begging one of the nurses to come home with me.
But no one came home with me. Just Aiden and John.
Home was depressing, quite honestly. Our seminary apartment wasn’t big enough for a nursery, so I’d had to section off part of the dining room for a crib, for all the expensive gifts my mother’s friends had given to us, for all that was still packed away and waiting for when we could start our new lives at a church. We’d be moving any day now, surely. John would have a job to support us any day now, surely. We would be okay, surely.
Maybe.
I wondered, as he left me alone after the first week. He went back to work at his janitor’s job, to put food on the table, and I stayed home with the baby, something that I’d always dreamt I’d be able to do.
It felt like a nightmare, though.
I remember walking into the dining room where Aiden was sleeping so peacefully. I was leaning on the wall, scarcely daring to move closer for fear that he would start crying, that I wouldn’t be able to stop him from crying, that I would come apart in bits and pieces, and that we wouldn’t be okay.
But I crept over, held my breath, and looked at him.
How can someone so tiny ruin everything? How can someone who hasn’t even had time to figure out where he is or who he is know all of your secrets, so much so that he can accuse you of all the evil in your heart, without even looking you in the eyes?
I took a good long look at Aiden that day with my fists clenched tightly at my sides and thought about how nothing would ever be the same.
And there was something else. Guilt for how I felt about him, guilt for how I had felt about another…
Oh, it all filled my mind and my heart as I continued staring at him from where he laid there, perfectly peaceful, wonderfully healthy, and just what I had prayed he would be… but still accusing me, knowing who I really was.
“I don’t like you,” I said to him.
Honest. Truthful. Shocking.
And it hurt. Being honest like this. My heart hurt as much as the rest of my body. The guilt. The guilt of knowing that if I had the chance to do it again I wouldn’t. The guilt of knowing that I had regrets. The guilt of knowing that I wasn’t good enough to be a mother to this child that I hated just a little, simply because he’d be up in another thirty minutes and he made me think about all that I wanted to forget —
I had called Hope, sobbing, five minutes into my new life as a stay at home mom. And she came. Left her work at the pregnancy center (ironic, I know) and came to me.
“For the love, Charity,” she had murmured, as I’d sat on the floor crying louder than Aiden as she came in to get him and hold him, soothe him, and treat him with the motherly affection that I should have. “Go lie down in your bed. Put on an episode of Bridezillas.”
“Bridezillas?” I had sobbed. “What?”
“Yes,” she had sighed, even as Aiden’s cries became louder. “Still your favorite, right?”
“I hate those girls,” I’d kept crying.
“Exactly,” Hope had murmured. “It’ll get your mind off of things. We’re going to watch TV while you feed this baby. I would do it for you if I could, but some things only you can make happen.”
I had known I could do that much. Just sit there and let Aiden do what he had figured out without my help.
“Okay,” I had sobbed, making my way into the bedroom, turning on the television, and setting myself up in my spot, all in a haze, all unable to explain myself.
But that had always been the great thing about Hope and me. We didn’t have to explain ourselves to each other. She hadn’t said a word as she’d brought Aiden in, as she’d laid him in my arms just the right way, and as she’d paused, looking at me to confirm that I could take it from there. As I did, she’d climbed into John’s spot in the bed, laid down with her head on his pillow, and watched one shrieking bride after another with me, disapprovingly murmuring “hmm” when the hysterics reached their peaks.
She’d spent all day with me, taking Aiden and changing him, rocking him, holding him as he napped, passing him back to me when he was hungry, and then doing it all over again, putting tiny kisses on his head even as she carried him around the kitchen, grabbing something for me to eat while I kept lying in bed.
She hadn’t understood what I’d been going through, but she’d done just exactly what I needed.
I’d fallen asleep at some point in the late afternoon and woke to find myself alone in bed, the darkness from outside making it nearly impossible to see much of anything inside. I’d blinked myself awake, felt how heavy I was again, knowing instinctively already that Aiden would need to eat soon, and had gotten out of bed to find Hope, to see if we should start another round of shows, not even thinking about John and what kind of dinner he’d want.
There he had been, sitting on the couch, close to Hope as she’d held Aiden in her lap. I’d watched, unseen, as they were both acting like complete idiots, cooing and talking gibberish to the baby as his little feet and arms were in the air, moving. They were both gazing down at him, looking so much like a happy little family as John — oh, the very memory of it — had said, “Hope, I think he has your eyes.” Which he could have (and still does) given the gene connection and the great probability that all of my children would carry just a little bit of Hope. I had actually wanted them to get her intelligence and had joked with John about it all —
But, no.
It had been my wakeup call. This was the family I had wanted. John. Our children.
John. He belonged to me, not Hope.
“He’s mine,” I’d said to her, completely in my right mind for the first time since I’d given birth.
Hope had looked up at me with a smile. “Yeah, even with my eyes, there’s no doubt of that. He’s been cooing at us, talking nonstop just like you do –“
“Give him to me,” I’d said, changing my focus from my husband, who watched me with concern, to the baby. I had to get this right. I had to get it right now. Because this was John’s baby, and I had to get it right.
Hope had glanced over at John even as she’d handed Aiden to me. “I was just letting you rest,” she’d offered softly. Just doing what she’d done all day, saving me, helping me, being who I needed.
She would understand even this.
“Okay,” she’d said, as I took him into my arms, where he began sucking on his fist, obviously looking for the one thing I could give him that no one else could. “Dinner’s in the oven. And I’ll just get out of your hair.”
I’d been too ashamed to say anything in return, but John had thanked her, had walked her to the door, and had told her, in whispers I could hear, even as I held my baby close and held my breath, “She’ll be okay. We’ll get through this.”
We had. I had. I’d gone back to my doctor, sobbed in her office, and she’d written me a prescription for pills that were even more blessed than the birth control pills she also prescribed.
Over time, I got back to a new normal. A new me.
I thought about this even as I got Aiden out of the tub, wrapped him up in a towel, and went to move to his room to get him dressed again.
“I’m so tired,” he said, collapsing in my arms, his long legs hanging from the towel and keeping me from carrying him any further. “I’m so tired, Mommy.”
So was I. So, I made sure no clean part of him was touching the filth that still covered my nightgown as I lowered us both to the bathroom floor. I grabbed a second towel, one of Amelia’s fluffy pink ones, and wrapped him up again so that he wouldn’t get chilled as I held him on my lap, close in my arms, like I’d done countless times before.
We’d been through a lot, the two of us. I’d been the mother he needed, once I got past myself.
Before I could even think too deeply about how much I had changed in the process, we heard John opening up the door. He squinted at the light and looked down on us.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, ever mindful of Amelia, asleep just down the hall.
“He throw-ded up,” I answered.
“Ahhh, no,” John murmured, looking down at Aiden sympathetically. “Think it’s a bug of some sort? After Amelia did the same earlier and all?”
“No,” I answered, knowing that the question had been for me. “Just one of those things. He’s already feeling better.”
“Yeah,” Aiden answered.
“His bed,” I said, glancing up at John. “I need to go and get it cleaned up if you can hold onto –“
“Mommy, I want you,” Aiden said, cuddling closer to me.
Before I could look up helplessly at John, he leaned down with a smile on his face. Kissing me on the forehead, he murmured, “Smart man. Mommy’s the best.”
And all that we have between us that isn’t always easily resolved… well, it can wait.
Because I love him. Sometimes just like I did back when I was nineteen. Sometimes in an entirely different way.
As I listened to him go in to begin to clean the mess up, I confirmed it again, thankful that I still felt this way, even with everything else going on…
I love him.
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Jenn Faulk 