True Stories from an Unreliable Eyewitness by Christine Lahti

Author:Christine Lahti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

But right after our baby Wilson was born, my concerns didn’t center around Tommy’s reneging. I feared I was going to be the worst mother on the planet. Even though I’d felt deeply connected with Wilson in utero, in reality I didn’t have that instantaneous bond I expected. I got how daunting the responsibility was; this tiny human’s life was literally in my hands. But I mostly just felt anxious to lose the seventy pounds I’d gained and get back to work. Jesus Christ, new mothers shouldn’t feel that way, right?

Apparently fathers got a cultural pass. You always heard men say, “Nah, I didn’t start to feel a connection to our baby until he was out of diapers.” Or “Nope, didn’t really feel close until they were old enough to play sports with me.” And nobody batted an eye. The phrase “paternal instinct” didn’t even exist in the English language! But moms had to be gobsmacked right out of the gate.

For the first few weeks, I kept having nightmares that I’d forget about Wilson, accidentally leaving him in the car if I went to a café or to my spin class. Also, it was pretty uneventful—I mean, all he did was sleep, eat, fart, shit, sleep, eat, fart, and then . . . um . . . oh yeah, shit. Even though others swore he grinned—Look! There it is! See? He’s smiling! Awwww! That’s definitely a smile!—I always knew it was just gas. Because that’s what my face often looked like when I farted.

Stuck at home alone, I became frantic that show business at large had forgotten all about me. My agents would soon stop returning my calls, casting people would start asking them for a Christine Lahti “type.” If I ever worked again, I’d only get to play the “mom” parts, which were not only brain-paralyzingly boring, but always number fourteen on the call sheet. In spite of all my careful strategizing about how I would “have it all,” it became clear that would only be possible if, like my character on Chicago Hope said, “I gave up eating, sleeping, and bathing.”

In those early days, while Wilson lay next to me in bed, I feared I’d roll on top of him and squash him into a newborn pancake. I’d lie awake staring at him, in awe of the miracle that was his cheek, the poetry of his pillow lips. I watched as his doll hands instinctively knew to grasp my finger and hold on for dear life, the way a robin clings to its branch. If he cried, the comfort that my breast gave him seemed overwhelmingly powerful. Trying to match his breathing as it slowed and sped up again, I wanted to know what he dreamed . . . if he dreamed. I’d finally fall asleep, only to wake up next to a tiny stranger.

While nursing him in those early weeks, I’d try to make eye contact with him. It was like trying to connect with a squirrel. Days passed as I searched for him.

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