Review: Birds of Wonder

Last month, I won a ridiculous amount of giveaways — ten, I believe — on Instagram, BookRiot, and Goodreads. Sadly, I did not win the lottery. Although, it could be argued that books > money . . . right?

Anyway, to the point: one such win was in a giveaway on author Cynthia Robinson’s IG page (@cynthiarobinson2605), in exchange for an honest review on Goodreads/IG/the blogosphere. I received the book from the publisher a mere three days later and got to reading immediately — it’s slated for release February 20.

Birds of Wonder is Robinson’s debut full-length novel. At about 300-some pages, the work of fiction is what I’d consider average in length, but let me tell you — it is chock full of dark characters and twisty plot points. As with many thrillers/mysteries/crime novels of the day, the story is told from multiple perspectives. I enjoy this for a few reasons: it adds a layer of deception and intrigue, it lends credence to unreliable narrators, and it makes the chapters fly by that much more quickly. I’m a self-proclaimed oddball that has developed a weird obsession with breaking reading into chunks. Books with longer chapters sometimes make these chunk-goals hard to achieve what with my increasingly-adventurous baby demanding attention and whatnot, so the shorter, individual narratives featured in books like Birds of Wonder somehow make the reading feel more manageable.

I digress. The novel is told from the perspective of six starkly different individuals: Beatrice, high school teacher and stiflingly ambitious and cheery widow; Jes, lead investigator on the case and daughter to aforementioned theater teacher; Liam, local vintner and child welfare lawyer; Edward, creep-of-all-creeps and obsessive artist; Conner, aspiring photographer and local student; and Waldo, known schizophrenic and laborer at Liam’s vineyard.

The six compelling narratives are strung together to cover the course of a few days, when a mutilated body is found on Liam’s property early Saturday morning. Unfortunately, the body belongs to Amber, one of Beatrice’s students and the star of her upcoming school theater production. Beatrice, busybody that she is, naturally spends the next couple of days in a state of anguish over the loss of her star, though whether her grief is more heavily concentrated on the tragic loss of a young life or the tragic loss of her leading actress is a bit fuzzy at times. Meanwhile, Jes scrambles to find the murderer before her misogynistic and repressive colleagues are able to, hell-bent on proving herself valuable despite her “drawback” of a college education. As the case winds to a close, everybody is in for a stunning revelation. EVERYBODY.

The Good: One of my favorite things about this novel is how marvelously crafted Beatrice’s character is. She. Drove. Me. Bonkers. And, if I’m being honest, all of the characters were very well-constructed; it’s just that Beatrice and Edward kind of hogged the limelight. Their beings were far more vivid than the others and I was in turns repulsed and transfixed by the two. I was also appreciative of the topics present in this mystery: sex trafficking, drug abuse, infidelity, loyalty, foster care, self-fulfilling prophesies . . . at times, it felt like there was too much that Robinson was trying to cram into this book; but overall, the themes worked well together. Oh! And another thing — Robinson did a great job of characterizing the strained relationship between a mother and daughter who have a very one-sided acquaintance. Beatrice’s insufferable interjection of herself into Jes’ life was so very reminiscent of small-town family life. I shuddered for Jes on a number of occasions.

The Okay: In the beginning, some of the descriptions were laboriously repetitive in their allusion to plants and birds and so on. I found myself wishing a few things were cut so we could get past the flowery descriptions and into the meat of the story. In short, it got off to a bit of a slow start. Additionally, as mentioned previously, it sometimes felt like the author was trying to accomplish too much in the short span of 300 pages/two days.

The Bad: Waldo’s narrative was just hard to get my head around. Sometimes it was distracting. Maybe I am dense (very good possibility) but I usually had to read his section more than once and was left thinking, Wait — what? I realize this is due largely to his unhinged nature; it just didn’t quite work for me. Fortunately, his narrative formed a very small part of the novel.

The Verdict: 3.5/5 stars. Read this one for the creep factor (here’s looking at you, Edward) and the family drama.

Review: The Stowaway & The Immortalists

Is it just me, or has January dashed by at an alarmingly rapid pace? I feel like I blinked a couple of times and suddenly it’s time for February, my kid has 2 new teeth and is trying to stand up, and my scale isn’t showing even a half pound of progress in the desired direction. 🙃 Damn, adulthood’s great. Am I right? 😜

In other news, I read some pretty good books this month (& a couple of great ones, like this and that).

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One of those pretty good books: The Stowaway by Laurie Gwen Shapiro. This work of nonfiction covers the story of William “Billy” Gawronski, the son of Polish immigrants who is living in New York City during the 1920s — a time of great American pride and an insatiable thirst for adventure. When pilot and explorer Richard Byrd announced elaborate plans for an expedition to the South Pole and a winter stay in Antarctica, 18-year-old Billy knows exactly where he wants to be: on that ship, at all costs. So in the wee hours of an August morning, he jumps into the Hudson River, swims to the Bolling, and climbs aboard — much to the chagrin of his parents, who desperately want Billy to carry on the family business and dismiss these foolish notions of adventure.

Told in the style of narrative nonfiction — think storytelling rather than textbook — The Stowaway is a tale of the resilience of the human spirit, a kind of patriotic zest for life that seems so prevalent in the 30s and 40s and so absent today. (I can’t be the only one that feels this way, right? Like the recent decades are far less resilient or driven to less ambitious heights?) As with most narrative nonfiction, I found the cast of characters a bit hard to keep track of at times (which is natural, since there are so many more players in real life than in fiction). While I enjoyed the first half of the novel, I felt like things kind of lost steam in the second half.

Overall, this was a short read (<200 pages) that included some intriguing historical tidbits. It didn’t quite live up to my other NF favorites (Seabiscuit, Killers of the Flower Moon, and Into the Wild), but it’s a pretty good read nonetheless. 3.5 stars

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Another new release for the month of January: The Immortalists, an extremely hyped-up title in the Bookstagram realm. This work of fiction by author Chloe Benjamin focuses on four siblings who seek out a fortuneteller in 1960s New York to discover the dates they will die. Childish curiosity comes with a price, though, as the four soon discover; and their lives will forever be altered by the ominous predictions made by the mysterious stranger in her cluttered apartment.

Varya, Daniel, Klara, and Simon start their lives close enough: the four share a room and all kinds of adventures as children. After the telling, though, their lives begin to follow distinctly different tracks: Simon and Klara head to San Francisco at ages 16 and 18, one to become a dancer, the other a magician; Daniel and Varya remain behind in New York to attend college and care for their mother after their father’s unexpected death. Resentment settles in as the elder siblings forego (some of) their dreams to take up duties the younger siblings can’t be bothered with.

Split into four sections — one for each of the Gold children — The Immortalists does pose a thrilling question for readers: if you knew the date your life would end, how would you live it? Would you play it safe, or live on the edge? My favorite aspect of this novel was the unraveling of each sibling’s life. Benjamin creates this really marvelous plot that becomes increasingly focused with each chapter and in the end, I was left feeling both empty and full at the same time, stricken by the characters’ outcomes.

My one gripe: Simon’s narrative. I hated it. His section of the novel is excessively sexually graphic, in my (admittedly prude) opinion. I’m okay with sex in books, but in this case the language and nature of these scenes just felt really out of place in the work. It was off-putting for me, enough so to make this book a 3-star read and one I’m glad I borrowed, rather than buying.

Motherhood, No. 2

It is early morning — somewhere between the hours of three and four, when my brain is too fogged with interrupted sleep to comprehend things like time — and you have awakened me with your intermittent cries. Yelps, more like. Between outbursts, a pause of several seconds — long enough for me to think Sure, he’s okay then and sink back onto my pillow before another cry wakes me from my sleep-drunken stupor.

Grumbling, I untangle my legs from the winding vines that the sheets have become overnight: your father doesn’t believe in sleeping like a normal human being (under the covers), so he is forever bringing a blanket to bed and hunkering down in it, pushing the sheets and bedspread to the side or foot of the mattress so that I end up in some sort of twisted pile of bedding that seems intent on strangling me as I sleep. You cry out again — I think you’re probably mostly asleep, the cries are so far apart — and I murmur reassurances that I know you can’t hear as I blindly walk the familiar path from our room to yours.

Your room is awash in the eerie glow of a too-bright nightlight that casts shadows on every wall. The worst is a spidery looking apparition that covers half of the room, mostly over your crib: the ghastly result of light striking your woodland-animals mobile. I secretly shudder at that leggy shadow every night, certain that your cries must have something to do with its looming appearance above your resting place. Can infants fear spiders? I’m sure any child of mine must.

On tiptoes, I lean over the top edge of your crib, my gut — still not recovered from carrying you, seven months later — creased in half by the hard walnut edges smoothed by your father’s shop machines. Shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhhh, Mama’s here — you stop the instant my hands grasp your torso and I lift you gingerly from the confines of your bed. You’re hungry, though, and begin to grizzle feverishly as I carry you to our chair. I brace myself against the shocking chill of polished wood against the backs of my thighs and shoulders. In the dark, your mouth works like that of a little milk zombie: open, shut, open, shut, open shut — until finally, you find what you’re searching for and your eyes fold shut in a mixture of relief and ecstasy.

As you feast, I close my eyes and lean back, wondering who you will become. It is three-something in the morning and I am awake, picturing you twenty years down the road, always with that cheeky grin and creamy, smooth skin. You stroke my hand with your tiny plump palm, occasionally pausing to wrap a finger in your fist, as if to tell me Thank you, Mama or — I like to pretend — I love you most. Not that it’s a competition between your father and me; just, I am your most beloved now, and I will savor that, because later you will have friends and classmates and girlfriends and lovers and I will surely lose the privilege of that most as I drift along in the wake of your expanding horizons.

Looking down at the rounded nub of your nose, I think of my teacher’s son, David, who took his own life a few months ago. Tracing the soft curve of your cheek with my fingertip, I pray. Please let this child grow up to know he is beloved and help him to find fulfillment. And Please always bring him home to me, whole. And Please make him need me always.

You’re through with the midnight snack, your head has lolled back onto my forearm and your mouth is agape, a stream of milk leaking from the corner where your lips meet and trailing down your neck: you are one satisfied little boy. I’m not tired any longer; I’m wide awake with the kind of fervent panic I can only assume all mothers experience at one time or another. It’s a futile panic: you will get older, you will grow up and out, you will leave me for a different life. These are certainties, and though I hate the leaving, I know that it is better than the alternative.

I am not tired anymore, though, so I will hold you a little longer now. I love you, I love you.

I love you.

Motherhood, No. 1

You’re clambering across the wood floor now, undoubtedly picking up stray hairs and particles of God-knows-what as you slap your hands down and drag your belly forward — the undusted floor beneath a bookcase teetering with stacks of beloved prose beckons you. It’s just you and me, all day every day, and you turn as you hitch your rump to one side and tuck your hips up underneath you, propping yourself up on one arm to look at me with a wry grin before resuming your destructive path to a Not-Play Area.

Two teeth jut up from your lower gums, neat and perfect and unchipped by any sort of toddler disaster, tiny white Chiclets in an otherwise gum-and-tongue world. Slap, swish, slap, swish, slap, swish — this is the music of my days, the thudding bass of your tiny body exploring the corners of our increasingly crowded living room. Peppered in among the thuds and scrapes, the excited pant and grunt of Baby Magellan en route to the Strait of Unclean Floor.

You watch me for a moment, lying on your back in all that filth that accumulates in forgotten corners beneath furniture, your head twisted to stare at me as you gnaw on a big toe with the dexterity of a contortionist. Saliva is pooling on the floor near your soft cheeks, and I think briefly — I should attach my microfiber mop to you, take advantage of this perpetual state of slobbering exploration. My own personal Roomba. I shake my head at the thought, and at you, with your body twisted in some sort of unnatural pretzel-ball while you make the kind of sucking sounds that would drive your father crazy if it were coming from someone at the dinner table.

Eyes still locked on mine — so steely blue, so unlike my chocolate browns — you release the foot from your firm grasp and purse your lips together, the tip of your tongue just barely visible before — pffffthhhhffffft — a raspberry, your favorite. Now I can’t help but laugh aloud, a quick Ha! that only encourages you to blow another and another. In these moments, I cannot deny the thought that you want to bring me joy, that you desire my happiness; and the very generosity of that from a seven-month-old baby is startling to my untrained self.

You turn your attention back to the dust-furred floor for the sparest of moments before the edge of a blanket hanging down from the couch captures your attention and you’re off again, thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. Through the belly of the coffee table, not around — So smart, I think — and in the blink of an eye, you’ve crossed the room and the purple blanket has an eggplant corner, already soaked in your saliva. As you examine the possibilities of this Other Region, I edge closer on my hands and knees, bellying up to you on the floor, placing my face nearby your fattened feet. Di-uh-beet-us feet, your father calls them; swollen and pudgy like mine were when you’d been in my belly for nine months. I know it’s likely I’ll take a foot to the face, but I want to be near. I want to be able to breathe the air that you expel, as if there is some sort of magic in just that — the act of breathing. I suppose there is. I suppose I had a hand in making that magic, now that I think of it.

While you fumble with the yarn in the deep red shag rug, I marvel at the callused pads on the tips of your toes which you maintain with regular intervals of kicking the floor in your belly-down position. At the whorls twisting inward on either side of the crown of your head, forming a spiky peak of silvery blonde. At the fingernails that never seem to be short enough, despite several weekly trims. You emit another string of raspberries, tongue proudly thrust forward as bubbles form and rivulets of spit follow the curve of your chins toward the base of your throat.

I wonder, not for the first time — is it possible that I love you too much?

A Few of My Favorite Things

Some days, I rise at the crack of dawn, knock back my multivitamin with a swig of lukewarm water, and in a blink — the day is over, I’ve survived without incident, Henry is well, there’s somehow dinner hot and awaiting the arrival of my husband, dishes are drying in a neat jumble to the right of the sink, laundry has been folded, and I’ve been wearing something other than pajamas since before noon.

Other days, Zack comes home and I’m like one of those kamikaze goats on the side of a mountain. You know, you’ve seen the memes — tiny hooves perched on tinier jutting cracks, body stretched impossibly wide with all the weight bunched up in his shoulders because his goat-butt is up three feet higher and his eyes are frozen in a combination of paralyzed fear and utter annoyance, as if he’s saying, Really, Frank? Again with the parkour? Fantastic idea.

On those days, I plop a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli or a crinkly packet of Ramen on the countertop, sniff my haven’t-bathed-in-two-days armpits before swiping on a double layer of deodorant, swap out t-shirts so it looks like I haven’t actually been wearing the same thing I wore to bed last night all day long, and shoot a few scathing looks at my screeching seven-month-old who is really friggin’ tired (as much as I am? naw…) but wouldn’t nap for longer than 30 minutes at a time — all just moments before Zack walks through the door smelling of wood shavings and Outside and the sweat of a man who’s just spent a luxurious hour lifting weights in the company of adults.

A Fergie song comes to mind here . . .

But I digress. I wanted to write about some things that help me through those jammies-till-I-die days, beyond the medication I take (which I talked about here because nobody’s got time for taboos anymore). I’ve compiled a list of some of my favorite things that I like to have on hand (or available to stream) to pull me through meh-days. I’ve linked some of the items below, but I’m not benefitting from any clicks here (w/ the exception of #1).

1. My Book of the Month Club subscription. Every month, I get to choose one newly-released hardcover title (out of 5 curated selections) to be shipped to my house for $15. You can sign up for 3, 6, or 12 months at a time (with discounts on the longer subscription services), or you can opt for their new monthly renewal. You can also add up to two other books per month for $9.99 a copy — and you can skip a month at any time with no extra fees or consequences. I typically love the titles each month and have only gotten one or two books in the past 18 months that just weren’t my cup of tea. Frivolous? Yes. Joy-inducing? You betcha. I could check these titles out from the library, but there’s just something purely magical about choosing a book at the first of each month and having something to look forward to in the mail. You can sign up using this link and get your first book for $9.99 (& a free tote bag). (Disclaimer — this is the one link that I will benefit from — if you sign up using this link, I get a book credit.)
2. Happiness body care products from Bath & Body Works. I absolutely love the aromatherapy line at B&B Works, which is great because compared to other “luxury” skin care products, it’s an affordable option; but it’s also kind of a bummer, because the company rarely has sales on this line of products. My favorite is the Happiness line, which is this glorious fruity fragrance of bergamot and mandarin that inspires, well, happiness. I would probably fill a closet in my house with every product in the aromatherapy line, but since I don’t have an income and my husband would likely lose his bananas, I stick to the shower gel and body cream, occasionally splurging on the sugar scrub. Another favorite: the Stress Relief products, which are this divine combination of eucalyptus and spearmint that just melts my being into this chill, revived lump of existence.
3. Yoga with Adriene on YouTube. Okay, here’s the deal — I think I might love Adriene a little bit. If I lived in a city, one of the first things I’d be interested in adding to my daily routine would be a yoga class. Alas, SWK doesn’t offer much in the way of yoga (or cities), so I scoured the internet a few months ago in search of an affordable option. Cue Adriene. I started with a 30-day challenge from a couple years ago and loved the diversity of daily practices. I also was amazed at how much my emotional well-being grew with each day I practiced. Sometimes she’s a bit more silly than I like, or a bit more chatty than I’m feeling on a particular day, but for the most part I love the variety of options Adriene’s channel offers and the practices that specifically target an audience (teachers, runners, nurses) or a problem area (back pain, for example).
4. Essential oil blends, mostly for diffusing. A few of my favorites from DoTerra: Serenity (a great nighttime blend that I use in the diffuser in Henry’s room), Balance (an earthy, calming blend that I diffuse during yoga or extra-tense days), and Cheer (magic in a bottle — super citrusy and uplifting). I also particularly love Thieves, which is a YoungLiving blend that smells like Christmas and basically just makes my heart per happy.
5. Walks with Henry! There’s very little that some sunshine and fresh air won’t cure; every chance we’ve had this winter, we’ve bundled up and hit the streets of our little town to air off the “house stink” (as my dad calls it). Even just an hour outside is so uplifting — I can’t wait for spring and summer, when walks will be a daily routine and days will last longer!

When I’m really lucky, I get to incorporate all of these things (reading = BOTM) in a day and I end up looking — and feeling — a little less like that mountain goat and a bit more like a Human Being. What are your joy-inducing go-tos?

The Plains: A Vignette

Out here, people are fiercely loyal to a land that has no love for any thing or any man.

The desertlike plains of southwestern Kansas are fiercely unforgiving; on any given day, you can expect to hear the relentless and mournful howl of a wrathful wind, uncorked from some mythical bottle that refuses to be stoppered until all its air has pushed forth. The wind charges furiously across open fields, encouraging earth to rise and seek refuge in every available crevice — the corner of an eyeball, a crease behind the ear, a long-neglected crack beneath a front door, a hole in the wall of a barn. The dust rises like powder into the endless sky and creates a galaxy of its own volition, daring any and all to enter its massive expanse and come out the other side.

It’s a trick, though.

Everybody knows that it is impossible to do such a thing — challenge the earth and emerge unscathed.

The furious wind and living, breathing organism that is dirt in the southwestern plains are maddening on their own; impossible to endure when they join forces. And just when the elements seem powerful enough to rob you of the most human things you are comprised of, the plains layer on another element of abysmal self-destruction: the drought.

One can live for months without a single cleansing drop of rain, it is true. But physical survival is not a close relative to spiritual continuance. As the earth shrivels and withers in the fiery kiln that is southwest Kansas, so, too, does the soul beat a hasty retreat. There is something primitive in our souls that can only be nourished by the pattering of rain upon dirt, and I often find myself wondering if I am the only one that feels mine rattling around within me like a tab in an empty pop can — or if the indigenous peoples have evolved over time to function with just a wisp, nestled securely inside the pinky finger.

I must remember to nurture my pop-tab spirit, to water it with something life-sustaining. It will not find a knuckle to burrow in safely until the sky opens up next; I am not a native. My soul will skitter about until it finds my mouth open at just the right time and whffft! — it will flee east, or north, witching water all the way.

Review: Tell the Wolves I’m Home

You know that feeling you get when something is just so beautiful and sad and overwhelmingly unfair? That feeling of childlike fury that is tears welling up and threatening to spill over the rims of your eyes, and a lump that won’t budge from your throat? That feeling of being profoundly displaced from your firm sense of justice in the universe, leaving you utterly disgusted by and mournful for humans?

That’s what reading Tell the Wolves I’m Home will do to you.

TTWIH is the coming-of-age story of June Elbus, an awkward and peculiar teenager living outside New York City in the 1980s. June has two accountant parents (and it’s tax season, so she’s basically an orphan); a sometimes-wicked older sister, Greta; and Finn, her quirky artist uncle who just so happens to love the Renaissance and classical music as much as June. When Finn dies of AIDS, June is crushed, left alone to sort through her feelings and the gauntlet that is teenage years. Her curiosity is soon piqued, though, by the lanky blonde man that showed up at the funeral, who Greta claims “murdered Finn.” When a mysterious note arrives — along with one of Finn’s most prized belongings — June throws caution to the wind and meets with the note’s author, Toby. In an unbelievable twist of fate, June comes to know the man her beloved Finn loved and in turn, begins to know herself.

I cherished every page of this magnificent work and thoroughly enjoyed the unfolding of June’s character. My heart ached for June as she tried so fervently to put others back together — even when she needed the putting-together most. She’s the kind of character you’ll find yourself wanting to wrap in a warm embrace . . . and maybe, secretly, you’ll find yourself hoping to encounter someone like her someday, because June is just that utterly endearing.

The Good: This novel is nothing short of brilliant, a praise I do not bestow lightly. The prose is evocative and intentional, characters are vibrant, and the plot flows with the turbulence of true-to-life emotion and the whimsy of fate. Every component of this narrative was tediously crafted to ensure an intricate, purposeful read. I greatly appreciated the attention to detail Brunt offers readers in this work and enjoyed her effortless prose.

The Bad: The book ended. That was bad. Awful, really. I wanted it to go on forever . . .

The Verdict: 5 gleaming, extra-polished, supernova stars.

Yes, it IS possible…

When Henry was a few months old, I was on the phone with my husband when I casually remarked in front of an acquaintance that I needed to run by the pharmacy to pick up my antidepressant medication. I will never forget the woman’s quick retort: “What could you possibly need antidepressants for? You have the cutest little boy!” I suppressed a cringe and evacuated the area as quickly as possible, unwilling to explain myself to this woman.

I was quick to leave the conversation behind, but the memory is vivid and lingers at the back of my mind most days. She hadn’t even hesitated to ask a question I’ve been trying to find the answer to my entire adult life.

I’ve struggled with manic depression since my middle school years, often at its worst during times of change. That first year of marriage? Lemme tell ya — they’re not kidding when they say it’s the toughest. You don’t know self-loathing until you’re living in the honeymoon phase and barely holding your head above water, all the while berating yourself for not being over the moon with the joy that is so trademark newlywed. And I never wanted to admit it, either — the vast depths to which my soul would plummet, the dark places I went in my mind; not while I was a teenager, and certainly not when I was newly married to the man of my dreams.

I was embarrassed. And I think, sometimes, so was my husband. As a naturally quite happy individual with limited — if any — exposure to people struggling with depression, he didn’t understand how I could wake up anything other than content. I don’t blame him; often, I’ve wondered the same thing.

But I digress . . . When I discovered I was pregnant, I experienced a pretty typical gamut of emotions: anxiety, anticipation, excitement, fear, joy, etc. As the months trudged by, though, that anxiety sharpened into something much more dangerous for me: I began to feel the darkness creeping up once again. It only got worse the more I thought about the dozens of ways my life was about to change. Try as I might, I couldn’t see past the negative changes barreling down the pipe — sleeplessness; lack of personal time; bills, bills, and more bills — so as our little one’s due date approached, I began to shrink into myself a bit more each day. Since I am manic, my highs are extreme, often bordering on absurd, and my lows are woefully deep. I could spend an evening at boot camp with my girlfriends, rubbing my watermelon-sized gut and laughing enthusiastically alongside them as we pushed through the paces; only to fall into a despairing pit of loneliness and melancholy two hours later, rendering me effectively incapable of moving from the bed or speaking.

So at 8 months pregnant, before we left the doctor’s office, my husband brought up The Subject to our doctor. We’d talked about broaching the topic several times prior to the appointment, and I’d even felt like it was a good idea as we walked through the clinic doors; but as soon as he asked my doctor about medication, I shut down. The doctor assured us it would be safe to take a low dose of something for anxiety/depression, talked about the very minimal risks associated with taking these drugs while pregnant, and then turned to me. Both my husband and the doctor waited, staring at me expectantly — as if I were supposed to just know the right answer, just like that.

What I said: “I’m not sure. Can we wait a few weeks to see if it gets better?”

What I was thinking: What if these drugs screw up my baby? What if they don’t help? What if I end up with debilitating postpartum depression after the baby arrives? What if the meds make it worse? What if . . . 

and here’s the thing I’d been dreading for years, the question I could barely ask of myself:

What if the baby inherits my proclivity for depression?

You guys, I was terrified. Terrified to admit I needed help, terrified to ask for it, terrified to screw up another life . . . I was frozen in time and space, incapable of giving the answer I so desperately needed to deliver: “Yes. Please help me, now.”

Thankfully, that husband of mine — the one who hadn’t understood my inexplicable sadness years prior — put his Converse-bedecked foot down and got bossy with me. (And before any feminists jump on me here and tell me it’s not my place to listen to my husband, you’re missin’ the damn point.) We left the doctor’s office that day with a prescription in hand, and though I was still apprehensive, my husband and doctor were clearly in my corner. Over and over again, they reminded me that given my history, my baby and I would face far greater risks if I didn’t medicate.

So I did the taboo: I took antidepressants while I was pregnant. And I continued to take them afterward. And seven months later, I’m still taking them, because being a mom is really, really freaking hard, as is adjusting to life alone at home. I never experienced postpartum depression (which was, honestly, one of my greatest fears about pregnancy); but I largely attribute that to my consistent use of antidepressants before and after delivery. In fact, I’ve had more happy days than not these past seven months, watching Henry grow. His smile is a salve to soothe even the most glum days.

I wish I could go back in time to that conversation — the one where the woman asked (not intending to be hurtful) how I could possibly be depressed with a beautiful new baby. I’d tell her I wasn’t depressed, not anymore, but I was taking preventative measures. I’d tell her how hard it is to be alone sometimes, at least for me. I’d tell her that for some people, it is possible to experience depression despite having a seemingly perfect or extraordinary life. I’d tell her it is possible to feel inexplicably alone and down in the dumps for no good reason. And I’d tell her that sometimes, people like me struggle because of a chemical imbalance in our brains — not because we aren’t grateful for the great things in our life, or because we cannot find joy in the little things.

And there’s nothing at all wrong with acknowledging you need a little help — because you can’t be everything to everyone if you aren’t whole to begin with.

Reading Wrap-up: December

I started out the month with my sights set on the titles pictured below…

Baby H., capturing the gleeful essence of my bookish being in this portrait. 

I knew it would be a stretch, completing 6 titles while the little guy learned to army crawl, changed up his nap rhythm (yet again), and generally demanded all of the attention (not even a little mad about it). But still, I persevered — and guys, I’m not disappointed at all to tell you I only fell a little short. The quality of books I read this month was S-U-P-E-R-B, for the most part, and that means far more to me than the number I accomplish.

Read on for a 30-second book review of each title I completed in December, in order of their completion.

1. The Wife Between Us by Sarah Pekkanen and Greer Hendricks. This psychological thriller alternates between the perspectives of two women — the ex-wife, and the wife-to-be. The novel is full of twisty surprises that kept me on my toes from start to finish, and though I didn’t love the lead male (or his Christian Grey-esque characteristics), I was very pleasantly surprised by this ARC that I received from St. Martin’s Press. Overall: 3.5-4 stars…can’t decide.
2. Future Home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich. This work of speculative fiction features Cedar Songmaker, an adopted Native American woman who is pregnant at a very ominous time: the world is experiencing backward evolution and no one is sure what will happen when the next generation of children is born. Will their brains be functional at the level of modern-day humanity, or is the modern world about to witness Neanderthals in the living flesh? Told in a series of very-lengthy diary entries, FHOTLG was more of a miss than a hit for me due to a number of underdeveloped characters and a disappointingly slow build to a meh conclusion. Overall: 2.5 stars. Maybe.
3. The Girl With All the Gifts by M. R. Carey. This zombie-apocalypse novel surprisingly swept me away. I’m not really one for zombies or post-apocalyptic themes, but Carey created a fantastic cast of characters that follows young Melanie and her beloved teacher as they struggle to survive a series of cataclysmic events. Unbeknownst to Melanie, she’s a “hungry” — but her wit, humor, and naiveté come together to create a lovable female lead whose perseverance and strength are absolutely worthy of your time. Overall: 4.5 stars.
4. Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng. The minute I finished Ng’s debut novel (Everything I Never Told You) I started champing at the bit for her next masterpiece. LFE did not disappoint: with tension and familial drama, this novel is a portrait of a utopian community nestled in the outskirts of Cleveland in the 90s. I savored this story from start to finish, relishing the recurring imagery of fire and the rich emotions of remorse, desperation, and loyalty. Ng is QUEEN of writing trainwrecks-in-waiting. Overall: 5 big, shiny stars.
5. The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey. For a full review, check out this post. The Snow Child is a touching, hopeful tale of one couple’s struggle to overcome their disappointment at being childless — by moving to the Alaskan frontier and starting anew. This is an ideal read for adult fans of Harry Potter and Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus; but it’s so much more than a novel for fantasy-lovers. This story, based on a Russian fairytale, is magical and heartwarming with every turn of the page. Overall: 5 snowflakes.
6. Tell the Wolves I’m Home by Carol Rifka Brunt. Okay — I’m cheating a bit, here . . . I’m only halfway through this work of YA fiction, but I’m absolutely in love with Brunt’s construction of time and place, and her vivid characters. When June loses her beloved uncle Finn to AIDS in the 1980s, she loses more than a close family member; she loses the only person who truly gets her. Though I’m not finished, I already know this is going to become one of my favorite fiction reads of the year, one I’m likely to highly recommend.

A Return from the Depths of Early Motherhood

So, it’s been a minute, friends. Or ten. Or 319,680. But who’s counting, right?

I’ve had every intent of updating my blog since that last book review in late April; truthfully, I still have an unfinished entry in my drafts folder titled “Reading Roundup: April and May.” Woof. Turns out, having a kid is more time consuming than one could possibly anticipate.

Or maybe just more than one very disillusioned reader wanted to admit to herself . . .

Anyway. My little miracle baby was born at the start of June in Kansas, when the sunsets begin their migration toward the later hour of moonrises and take on the vibrant golds and scarlets that only come with the ends of days in the simmering summertime. He became the rising and setting of the sun to me the instant he was carved from my belly, no small token after months of growing inside my burgeoning stomach. He became the very reason for life itself; a reason I didn’t know I needed until I saw his gaping gummy mouth and intent steely eyes beckoning — Hey, You. Blobby thing. Feed me, please. And perhaps nestle me close, yes, like that. Oh, that’s nice. You’re cushy in all the right places! Oh, please, won’t you love me forever?

Challenge accepted, Little One. Forever.

And now, as I type this, my squinty-eyed boy has become a gurgling six-month-old squawking at me to put my toes closer to the jumperoo, please Mama, I need to grab them and — oh — yes, these belong in my mouth . . .

I’ve been thinking often, lately, about those early days of first-time motherhood; in part because I am missing those squishy little baby snuggles, and in part because I have so many friends nearing that milestone (or past it). Man, those first days — weeks, months — are tough. Here’s a few things I discovered about becoming a mother:

1. You will never feel more inadequate. Ever. In your entire life. I mean, obviously I haven’t lived my entire life yet, but I feel pretty confident that you’re never going to feel more incapable or out of your league than those first several weeks with an infant who’s speaking — jk, screaming — a different language and won’t latch on to your damn boob and fortheloveofGodcan’thesleeplongerthanthirtyminutes? It gets better with time, but I’m not real certain the feeling ever dissipates completely.
2. You will stop caring who sees your boobs. My first few days in the hospital, I really, really didn’t want my mother-in-law to be around while I was nursing. It felt like some sort of violation of a line that needed to be drawn in the sand. Fast forward a few weeks: I’ve become a pro at nursing in parking lots, church pews, and McDonald’s booths. I’m as discreet as possible, but let’s get real, guys — it’s damn near impossible to finagle the nursing bra while holding the increasingly-squirmy and often-screaming child and trying to lift the shirt while also keeping a blanket over your chest and aforementioned screaming infant. Yeah. It’s been 6 months and I still haven’t mastered the art.
3. You will feel like you might actually die of exhaustion. Yep. Not an exaggeration.
4. But you won’t. Just keep drinking that water and eating those granola bars. . . . two at a time . . . or three, that’s fine, too.
5. You’ll pray to God, Allah, Buddha, Mother Nature, the Abominable Snowman, and the Kool-Aid man for baby to start sleeping through the night yesterday. This kinda goes back to #3, because let’s face it — really all you can think about in those first few weeks (or months) of baby-rearing is sleep. And how much of it you’re not getting.
6. But by the time baby is only waking up once a night to feed, you’re going to feel a little sad. . . . because the realization is starting to hit you: he’s not going to need you someday. Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a few years until that’s a reality . . . but it starts with the nighttime feedings and it only goes downhill from there, friends.
7. You’ll probably be a “bad” wife for a while. Home-cooked meals? Swept floors? Laundered clothes? Unless you’re Wife of the Year, those things probably aren’t going to get done regularly (or at all) for a while. Maybe a couple of months. It’s okay. You’re not a bad wife. You’re a badass who just expelled human life from your loins. Any time someone tries to make you feel guilty about not getting dessert made (or really, for anything in those first several months), simply hoist the fruit of your womb and tell ’em to suck it.
8. You’ll reminisce on all those times you were a shithead to your own mother and experience deep and lasting remorse. Go ahead, call your mom. Apologize. Cry if you need to. She gets it.
9. You’ll feel disgusting. Unless you’re one of those weirdos whose body returns to pre-pregnancy form two days later, you’re going to be squishy and quite possibly covered in stretch marks and incapable of turning down anything chocolate or cheeseburger-y. I’d like to say the feeling evaporates by six months postpartum, but it hasn’t for me. That being said, I do take some relief in watching my offspring smile dazzlingly as I whisper to him, You did this to me . . .
10. You’ll never get these moments back. Already, I’ve forgotten the heft of my boy in his first few days of life as he curled up against my chest. I’ve forgotten the exact sensation of his tiny tuchus nestled in the crook of my arm with his tiny newborn head smooshed against my shoulder as he slept the sleep of the dead. The general memories remain, but I feel an aching remorse in my belly every time I can’t vividly recall a detail from those early weeks. I remember wanting each day to just pass so badly — Please, God, just let me make it through one more day — and now I am desperate to draw out each hour, feeling the impermanence of my station here in life now more than ever.

Like I said: It’s tough becoming a mother. Some women seem to be born with an innate knack for the task, somehow knowing from day one how to soothe and entertain and discipline and nourish. Many, like myself, aren’t born with that knack, and we find ourselves circling the motherhood drain and wishing we could knock a few back, but baby’s still eating every two hours and I’m still a human-milk dispensary, so . . .

Here’s a little secret, though: knack-full or knack-less, we all start our motherhood with equal footing in one capacity. We are born with the instinct to love.

And, you know, it might be a bit naive, but I’m certain that no child can thrive without boundless, unconditional love. So go ahead, mamas — rely on that instinct to love, and a quick Google search for the rest.