Last October, I got pregnant with my now five-month old, Sedar. My New York life, up to that point, had been good to me. I was 34, single, world-traveled, a performance poet with an advanced degree in the field. My income came from teaching creative writing to students that wanted to improve their writing, and performing. Career-focused and experience-driven, I had abstract and fleeting aspirations of becoming a mother and spouse. However, I spent more of my energy dreaming of the micro changes I could make in the world than the change I could make by birthing a world shaper. Still, I was open to it if the “right” situation came about.
Then, elbow deep in the beautiful muck of becoming Sedar’s mother, I had no way of knowing what “right” meant. S was a perpetual traveler, making his living with photography. He hadn’t worked for a single soul, or paid rent in 8 years. Interpersonally, we weren’t as stable as I would’ve liked, and clashed frequently. Nevertheless, he kept showing up in the snow and rain, rages and silences. We extracted sweetness from uncertainty. He bent his chaotic schedule around doctor’s appointments and sonograms. Contributed financially. When he was in town, he grocery shopped with me, holding my groceries, and my hand—slipping on sleet. Each time he filled my doorway with his camera bag and carry on, I greeted him with a bigger belly. The baby was this runaway train that came before we were “prepared,” and we were hustling, hustling to catch up.
Sedar was due in June. Weeks before his birth, I squeezed my life into 25 boxes (half of them books) and S and I boarded a train from NYC to South Florida, where my parents and siblings all lived. My inner compass told me it made sense to be in the presence of family for this life event, and beyond. So I moved in with my mother, taking a year leave from my teaching position at Juilliard to commit to raising Sedar full time, and breastfeeding him for however long.
Things were smooth, at first. I had a safe and swift delivery, from which I bounced back quickly. Sedar was as healthy as his appetite. Breastfeeding proved challenging, and then gratifying. S and I fortified, and settled into an amicable groove. My mother and I were better than ever before. Between our New York and Florida baby showers, all of the baby’s needs were taken care of for months down the line. I was more ready to be a mother than I’d realized, and was fully present for Sedar, falling in love with his every development, reading poems to him in English and Spanish, and taking him on daily walks around my mother’s neighborhood.
My mother lives in a community for senior citizens, governed by an association. When it came to the board’s attention that I was parading around the neighborhood with a shiny new baby, it soon after came to our attention that no minors were allowed in the community. My mother was in violation by having a baby reside there with her, and Sedar had to leave. It just so happened we were in the process of applying for Sedar’s passport for his first trip to my homeland, Trinidad. Initially, the two-week trip was because of two weddings and my aunt’s birthday, but maybe there’s more to it? The two weeks of festivities have come and gone, and I have remained. What next?
November 16, 2015
Port of Spain, Trinidad