Baby Squirrel, Reality lapsed. Reality is lapsing.

The second of five mothers' letters: a project.

This letter started as a tiny interview project. It is the second of five love letters / sighs / songs of several new mothers to their babies, including my own.

It is also probably the hardest one to read.

It addresses intrusive thoughts, scary and vivid dreams, postpartum anxiety and depression, miscarriages, deaths, and a raincloud of fear.

Again, many thanks to the Mamas willing to share their experiences—and giving me the latitude, lease to blend their words.

*

Bubba, Ells Bels, Boo Boo, Samoo Bear, Sweet Pea, 

This is something I will never tell you. 

My cousin told me a story of a friend of hers whose husband accidentally crashed into a lake, drowning their two boys. 

Now I fear this, am of this. 

I also fear my life is contingent upon yours. 

I lie awake paralyzed by my fear.

I remember the miscarriages and the babies I didn’t get. 

I've had extremely vivid and often exceedingly violent dreams.

Dreams.

The thoughts have been scary, pressing in and looping.

Don’t lay on stomach: baby will suffocate.

Don't lay on side: baby will roll and suffocate.

Don't lay on back. Baby will have flat head. Also, maybe suffocate.

I am a bad mother.

I am a bad mother for not hearing you cry. 

If you sleep quietly, my baby, you must be dead.

No one is responding to my texts with pictures of my baby because I have posted gruesome remains. 

No one is responding to my texts with pictures of my baby because I haven’t sent the texts because there are no pictures.

No one is responding to my texts because I have no phone.

My phone is a figment and the blood on my baby’s cheek is not the blood from a visible cut on my cheek but from me hurting her. 

What I mean is: I may have meant to crash the car into the river.

You were strapped into your car seat behind Mama.  

I raced against time to get you out, pushing that red button, unbuckling the buckle.

The water was rising.  

It was a dream. 

It was a kind of dream. 

It was a long 4 days.

It was a terrifying last 2 hours 

You and Mommy's cries were the best sounds I could ever have imagined.

I was the happiest mama, but Mommy's tears didn't stop.

They didn't stop for nearly and months.  

Love is too small a word for a sensation so jagged and animal and keening. 

I fear of you.

I fear you will fear me.

I fear you will grow up not knowing your Mommy, and I am ashamed. 

I am ashamed to be so scared. 

Scared to change your diaper. 

Scared to change your diaper around your IVs. 

Scared to reposition you so you are comfortable.

Scared to hold your hand. 

I had the thought that I am not strong enough. 

I had the thought I am not big enough.

My love, 

Baby Squirrel, 

O, 

I wanted to tell you,

but don’t want to tell you. 

You grow your heart for nine months, then shove it out of your body and offer it to the world.

And, it was not an accident. 

Reality lapsed.

Reality is lapsing.

I feel I killed your sister. 

I can hardly type it.