oh antic God
return to me
my mother in her thirties
leaned across the front porch
the huge pillow of her breasts
pressing against the rail
summoning me in for bed.
I am almost the dead woman’s age times two.
I can barely recall her song
the scent of her hands
though her wild hair scratches my dreams
at night. return to me, oh Lord of then
and now, my mother’s calling,
her young voice humming my name.
—Lucille Clifton
When I was in my third trimester, I allowed myself to become very confused over all the conflicting postpartum advice I was receiving (You’re definitely going to want to be alone! You’re also going to need so much help!) I decided that I didn’t want or need anyone to come visit us for at least one to two weeks postpartum. After that, I would welcome any and all support. This, I reasoned, would allow us to “bond as a family” and “recover in peace.” No one would be grabbing for my baby, and I could walk around with my top off undisturbed.
My mother, thankfully, ignored this idiotic request. Mere hours after we arrived home from the hospital, she confessed to me over the phone:
I’m in Maryland. Grandma is here, too. I just needed to be nearby.
A few fresh days postpartum, I am gazing back and forth between the two of them. Disbelief mixes with admiration when, for the first time in my adult life, it registers that they did this — ‘this’ being, had a baby — more than once. The two look on as fountains of milk spray out into the quiet living room, gently dousing my couch, my rug and my baby. I am wearing an orange dress; it clings to my pastry dough belly. I awkwardly attempt to align nose with nipple. My mother looks on knowingly, with compassion. My grandmother looks on with mild confusion, like she is seeing something for the first time. I’m not sure if she could relate.
After making the passage into motherhood myself, the respect I have for the older mothers in my life has deepened. I’ve begun to take a great interest in their lives and histories. I’m intrigued. How is it possible that I’d never bothered to ask my grandmothers about their births, or my many aunts about their postpartum? What was Ellen’s story, or Holly’s, or Pat’s? What about my great-grandmother? What were her mothering experiences like? Did she breastfeed, or want to? Suddenly I am dying to know.