Epiphany

I wake, still exhausted.

Mentally, physically, emotionally, exhausted.

Every part of my energy is diverted to somewhere more important.

I think this baby is sucking the words from my fingertips as she grows and grows. She’s storing them for fodder. For later, when she is two like her sister is now, to tangle and weave in a pattern of hilarity and sadness.

My oldest climbs the mountain of comforter and slides down into the bend of my shoulder, to a place she can still fit despite the size of my growing belly.

“I want to keep you, Mommy,” she says to me, begging to stay in our bed for one second longer, to breathe in the pocket of warm cuddled air for one moment more. Every part of me says yes. But I have to drag myself away from my child, on to the day that waits.

I inspect my face in the mirror. Pimples. I am fifteen again. My hormones rage and scratch beneath the surface of my nearly bridled insanity, finding little release, they burst through my skin, scarring me. I look away. Twenty six and pock marked. Yet another indecency chalked up to being pregnant.

I pull on my pencil skirt, wrestle my not-short not-long hair into something passable, find my best stilettos, toss them to the back of my closet, and slip into black flats, plain and ordinary, befitting a pregnant woman. I skip the red lipstick, instead opting for a salve to help my chapped lips. I am thirsty nearly every second of the day.

What I am to you is not real

What I am to you, you do not need

What I am to you is not what you mean to me

You give me miles and miles of mountains

And I’ll ask for the sea.

Damien Rice croons from my car stereo. I am crying. Why am I crying? I force the corners of my mouth downward, tightening the tears inside, and put it in park. My daughter squeezes my neck, thankful for the release of the five point harness in the car seat. She trots off to her day, left knee, right knee, hefting herself to the top of my mother’s steps. She turns and waves to me, I blow her a kiss through the open window, and she catches it in her palm with an open smile. My heart expands with a bottomless love and gratitude, calming me.

My day drags on, its pattern worn into the bob and swivel of my desk chair. I stay on autopilot until 5, when I am free again.

Night time rushes forward, pork is braised, vegetables steamed, ice cream rationed. Bath time comes and goes with little to no fuss, kisses and tickles reign for the last hour of light. Finally, I can rest again. Being a mom is a tricky business. Being a mom with a baby in her belly is trickier

We watch as our next American Idol is kinged. My husband’s fingertips stretch wide across my abdomen. I wonder how long it will last. How long will his hand look so large on my belly? The days are numbered, though they feel endless to me.

His eyes fly open wide. “Did you feel that?! Was that her?! I felt her. I FELT her!” Suddenly, I am washed in awareness, of clarity, understanding that this very moment, the look on his face, this is why I am able to do it. This is why I can clamp my eyes shut, dig my fingernails deep, and hold on through the very high highs and very low lows of the next five and a half months.

As she turns and settles inside of me once more, I fully connect to the reality of our changing family. I am terrible at being pregnant, but I am a ferocious mother. This little bean, this tiny belly baby, she is our newest piece, and together we can finally feel her. She is real.

When it matters, it matters.

Sometimes, my panties get in a knot for reasons that flare on the political side. I am hesitant to say that I am politically educated, because that is a gross understatement. But I know what is right and what is wrong, and if there is a pertinent situation for me to speak my mind, I damn well speak it. Arguably, everything in politics is pertinent to me, I realize this, but I specifically react to situations that represent me, my family, my life, directly.

Luckily, I have not been a victim of job loss due to pregnancy, but I know too many women who have.  Granted, my jobs have not been physical, and they require very little of me in that sense, but that does not mean that every woman has the same luxury. Many women choose to work in physical fields, and they deserve to maintain those jobs regardless of their ‘state’. I came across this post today from Broken Condoms, and immediately read into the movement. I urge you, whether you are pregnant now, have been pregnant in the past, plan to be in the future, or love someone who is pregnant and working, write to your representative and learn about the Pregnant Workers Fairness Act.

 

Dear Congressman Marino,

Few instances arise in my life and work that spurn me to action on a political level, but the support needed for this particular movement is of the most importance to me. I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, and an employee. My success in all of these facets hinges on my ability to provide emotionally and financially for my family. I have worked since the legal age in Pennsylvania, uninterrupted, for the entirety of my 26 years. To think that a pregnancy could strip me of the ability to do this is unjust and frankly, unfathomable.

At a time in history when it is common, and in many circumstances necessary, to have both parents in a family working full time, at a time when economic hardships touch both sides of the poverty line, at a time when family is often the last thing left intact, we cannot permit unfair treatment of a valuable resource to our country, the pregnant woman. It is with this in mind that I ask you to wholly support the Pregnant Workers Fairness Act.

As a pregnant working mother, I can say with unmatched certainty that ‘pregnant’ is not synonymous with ‘impaired’. The simple act of carrying a child does not impede our mental faculties, it does not exempt us from our duties of employment, and it does not deter our desire to provide for our families. If we as workers are able to meet the requirements asked of us by our employers, we should be granted the benefit of a full term pregnancy while behind our desk, at the wheel, at the head of the classroom, or wherever our calling lies.

As a mother, worker, and resident in your district, I beg of you: Please support the Pregnant Workers Fairness Act.

Kindest Regards

McKenzieR.Haraschak

Awareness

I skittered through a funeral on Monday of a woman I did not know. Her daughter is an acquaintance of mine, not a close friend, but friendly none the less. Briskly, I walked over the matted red carpet, eyes cast downward, hotly aware of the scarcity of familiar faces in the closed room. It smelled of lilies, of every casket I have walked beside in all of my life. The air was heavy, abrupt laughter drifted through the alcove, a sin, a breach of contractual grief. I hugged the dead woman’s daughter, she firmly hugged back. Quiet, resolved to the finality of the day, she dropped my hands and moved along to the next person in line.

I was not part of the funeral procession. I did not know the family, did not have a strong enough connection even to stay for the services. It was borderline inappropriate for me to have attended at all, but I could not stay away. I walked to my car, my heels clicking and wobbling along the broken sidewalk, and climbed into my car.

Later, I sat at my desk and read the obituary of a man who was a client of the company I work for. In seven days, he would have celebrated 48 wedded years with his wife. Seven short days. The thought of this, of being the wife left behind, of having woken up next to the same man for half a century, and suddenly after 47 years, waking alone, shattered me. My gut twisted. Quite plausibly, that could be me, or equally, my husband. I pushed it out of my mind, willing myself to move on with my morning.

That evening, after tucking my daughter in for the night, I sat beside my husband on our couch, together again after a long 12 and a half hour work day. He smelled of the ice rink, of sweat and winter. I breathed him in, finally relaxing. “That woman I told you about?  The really pretty one? I found out that she passed away today. It is so sad.” He said, reaching for my hand. Anxiety grasped my throat. Another one, gone.

I went to bed and dreamed broken dreams, of loss and suffering. I awoke in a sweat, my right arm twisted through the thin black strap of my night dress, the hem sucked around and beneath my bottom leg. I untangled myself and sat up, looked at my husband soundlessly sleeping. I laid my hand on his chest and waited for it to balloon with breath. It did. Relief seeped in to the muscles in my shoulders. Quietly, I walked across the span of our room, checking our balcony for what I don’t know, and crossed the hallway to where Vi lay, sleeping. I placed the same hand on her chest, and waited. She rolled away from me, disturbed by my probing. Mollified, I went back to bed.

In the darkness, listening to the hum of the baby monitor, I realized, it is not death I fear. I am a believer. I am a good soul. I have made peace with the unsavory parts of my past, I have forgiven myself and forgiven others. I lead a peaceful, rich life. I do not fear passing on. It is in the leaving behind where my fear is firmly rooted.

Perhaps it is the concoction of pregnancy hormones that has my mind tilted this way. Perhaps my bringing new life into this world is perfectly congruent with the passing of life. Perhaps it is all very normal. Possibly, it has been this sudden exposure, the repeated assault of the effect of death that has me tied up. Whatever the reason, despite the choking anxiety, I am grateful for this discomfort. It has prompted me to be more aware of my gratefulness. It has reminded me to drink in every drop of life I am given with my family intact, as so many around me can no longer do.

Oh, hello, Sybil! It’s me, Sanity.

I lost my mind on Tuesday night. Our big Announcement Day. The day we went officially public about our pregnancy on our Facebook accounts and on my blog. For a few hours, I was certifiably insane. And my husband will testify.

I sat at home, my iPhone crashing and freezing every few minutes with all of the FB chirps that came through. I felt much loved by all of the kind words, surprised at the outpouring of excitement from people I haven’t seen in years. And then came a text from my husband.

Husband: Look at my book. Okay or no?

Now, if he needed to question whether or not the post was ‘okay’, or ‘no’, chances are that NO it is not ‘okay’. Hesitantly, I clicked on the notification from Steve Haraschak. And there it was.

“This is how men announce pregnancy” linked to a picture of Seth Rogan’s stupid mug in a poster for the movie Knocked Up.

 

And here is where I lost my mind.

 

WHAT A FUCKING ASS. Seriously? Knocked UP?! We TRIED for this baby, you jerk. How can you liken our sweet little seedling to the offspring of some random drunken hookup between a stoner loser and a girl way out of his league? How is this even remotely amusing? How did you not think I would hate this? How do you come UP WITH THIS SHIT?  YOU. ARE. DEAD.

 

On and on my mind reeled for a solid hour until he got home, where he found me reading bedtime stories to Vi. He pensively sat at the base of the rocking chair I sat in, the post having long been erased from the annals of Facebook history, and reached for my right foot to rub. I jerked it out of his hands and spat “I DO NOT feel like getting a foot rub right now.” Calmly, as any lunatic would, I continued reading Mercer Meyer to my oblivious two year old. He sat. He waited. He held his breath. And I continued to steam.

 

After getting the kiddo settled, I stomped downstairs and immediately assaulted the dishes. I scrubbed and banged pots as loud as I could to make damn certain he knew PRECISELY how pissed I was.

 

Husband: “Baby, leave those dishes, I’ll clean them up while you’re in the bath. Come and sit with me for a while.”

 

Verbal response: “No, I will do it now.”

Response in my head: “No, you MONSTER. I do NOT want to sit by you. How can you even SUGGEST such a thing at a time like this? ”

 

After every speck of dust and grime had been scrubbed from my pans and countertops, I huffed in and plopped myself down on the couch a solid three feet away from my husband. He reached for me. I turned away. He scratched my back. I stiffened to his touch. It was as though Charles Manson was trying to win my affection right there in the living room.

 

“McKenzie, I swear to you, I never meant to hurt you. I am an idiot, I thought it was funny. Truly, I never would have posted something that I knew would upset you. I am so sorry.”

 

And then I sobbed. Endlessly. Bottomless crying, wracking my whole body, dry heaving, gasping for breath, snot dangling from my reddened nose. Ugly ass crying. And it continued on for 15 complete minutes. During which time, he held me. Despite the hate I had flung at him, despite knowing that he was completely justified in not apologizing in response. I cried and cried and cried. Not because I was that hurt by the stupid post. It wasn’t very funny, I admit, but it wasn’t particularly gutless either. And certainly it was not worthy of 4 hours of blind anger. It wasn’t worth making my very caring husband feel like total shit. Because he IS the kind of guy who says the perfect thing. He IS sweet, and funny, and considerate, more considerate than any person I know. I cried because I allowed these ridiculous, encompassing hormones to ruin a night, to get so out of control that they hurt me and hurt him. It was shameful. It was embarrassing and terrible. I truly am very sorry, and I hope that I never allow them to escalate to that point again.

 

But. It is a big step up from the fourth week of pregnancy, when I chucked a full bottle of Kiwi Strawberry Gatorade at his head while he sat unsuspectingly on the couch. Cheers to progress!