Afterbirth

There’s more to afterbirth than afterbirth.  That’s my thesis statement of the day.

But perhaps I should explain.

By this I mean there are inevitable adjustments that come after a birthing.  The sleepless nights.  The visitations.  The flowers.  The emotional yo-yos. The congratulations.  The newness.  The promise.  The sacrifice.  The hope.  The wondering. The mood-swings.  The knowledge that everything has changed and the old norm is caving in to a new one – a good one, but still a different one.

For me, after-birthing this time (see yesterday’s blog for details) includes babysitting the older siblings.  Getting-them-out-of-mama’s-hair.

I hurriedly whipped up some homemade macaroni and cheese late this morning when I learned the girls would be here by lunchtime, and it ceremoniously (and fragrantly) exited the oven just as they arrived.  The younger one, who is fighting a cold and feeling miserable, adamantly refused to try even one bite.  I could handle that.  I mean really, a snotty nose makes everything taste wrong.

But her older sister also balked, without reason.  After some prodding, she finally agreed to take a taste. 

“I don’t like it,” she said.

Something in me smoldered, like a hot coal spitting sparks when touched by dry grass.  However, I kept my composure.  “Why not?  What don’t you like about it?  It’s just cheese and macaroni noodles,” I replied.

She looked at me without any hint of manipulation.  “It’s too cheesy for me.  Too cheeeeeesy.”

How do you argue with too cheesy?  I mean there’s just no ammunition for that kind of battle.  “Well, that makes me sad because I made it just for you,” I said.  “And maybe I also feel a little bit angry too.”

No big deal.  That was my problem.  She pushed aside the bowl of macaroni and cheese with an air of finality.

I pointed to the refrigerator where a picture of Khumili, our little sponsoree in India, is posted.  In my sweetest, most convincing voice, I said, “That little girl has NOTHING to eat.  All she has is an empty bowl.  She doesn’t get to choose what she wants or doesn’t want, or what she likes or doesn’t like, because her only choice is NOTHING.”

All I got was a stare.  Was I registering?

“Khumili would be so happy to have your bowl of mac and cheese,” I continued.

I could see the wheels turning inside her head.  She probably was wondering why in the world I didn’t take her bowl of mac and cheese to Khumili, then?  Wasn’t this really MY problem, after all?

Without a trace of guile, she said, “I want some yogurt.”

“I don’t have very much yogurt, but I’ll split what I have between you and your sister.”  Whatever.  Just eat.  And be done.

After both little darlings had been ushered into that idyllic time of day called naptime, I ate every bit of the macaroni and cheese they’d refused, and more, too.  No matter that it was the farthest thing from my preferred food list; no matter it was gluten, fat, and casein (dairy) laden.   No matter.  I deserved it.  I would eat it in Khumili’s honor.  I would feel bloated afterward, and subdued by brain fog.  I would revel in the fact that it was too cheesy.  TOO CHEESY!  And then I would laugh at myself, and the absurdity of elbow macaroni’s ability to control my life, and chalk the whole thing up to one thing: afterbirth.