The mama on the bench

What I know now

To the Pregnant Mama on the Bench,

Let me pretend you were with me all this time.

Instead of the brief encounter we’d had together, and the fleeting seconds that passed between us.

Allow me to imagine for a moment that we knew each other.

Maybe we could have been friends.

I saw what you were feeling. The exhaustion. The frustration. The knowing. You were about to have your hands more full than you’d already had them, as you closely watched your two little boys. So for a minute, you rested your swollen belly beside me.

Staring down an endless tunnel of worry. Sleepless nights. Fear and angst. You sighed deeply, perhaps agonizing over whether or not you were doing it right or if you could have done it better.

I had no idea what it was that made you exhale so deeply that day. Or why you left and came back.

But I do know that for me - when I was as pregnant as you, with my third baby - I counted down the days till I could find my escape again and turn off all the noise. I struggled to find the joy, but instead chose to lose myself - by drowning at the bottom of a bottle. My pain so deep, so profound, that at the time, I had no idea how alone I truly was.

If only I’d learned back then, how to ask for help.

After the last time you left, I’d been sitting on that bench for a while. I managed to tune out all the noise. The people. The chaos of babies crying and toddlers screaming.

My son wandered the sporting goods store looking at fishing rods and tackle boxes, shopping by himself, and I took for granted my ability to relax there in uninterrupted silence.

When you left our spot, you disappeared, clutching your aching back. You vanished into the hordes of shoppers, shuffling off after your boys, who sprinted ahead to see the turtles performing a conga line on the rock under the waterfall.

I hope that your journey towards understanding and resolution is swifter and less arduous than my own. May you someday find the strength and support needed to confront your pain, to delve into its roots, and to emerge from the process with wisdom and resilience that will guide you towards your own joy and peace.

Because at the risk of sounding cliche, it goes by pretty damn fast.

I never wanted to rush it.

I just needed to survive.

I wanted to return intact.

-From the Other Mama on the Bench

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This was an exercise written in Jeannine Ouellette’s Writing in the Dark private writing community School.