ebb + flow | 2

That One Guest Bathroom: A Love Story

That One Guest Bathroom: A Love Story

The memories start with vomit.

I’m seventeen, making bad decisions, and nursing a broken heart. A sweet boy I’ve known for a while invites me over, welcomes me into his circle of friends, and before long I’ve found it necessary to locate the bathroom–in a hurry.

The bathroom is decorated with greens and gold, faux flowers and matching towels. There is a shower, a toilet, and a sink. There is also a comfy rug that becomes a close friend over the next few hours. Eventually I’ll be dragged home by a girlfriend I don’t even talk to anymore. Eventually I’ll be alert enough to realize how humiliated I feel, apologizing profusely. Eventually it’ll become an old joke within our group of friends.

But right now, I’m on the bathroom floor, with messy hair and a spinning head–and it’s no joking matter. I am weeping. I am shaking and horrified. Someone knocks on the door. It’s that sweet boy.

He is here with crackers, an uncertain smile, and an invitation out on a real first date when I’m feeling better.

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Six years later, and there’s more vomit. 

This time it’s constant–”morning” sickness is a lie. 

We’ve just handed his mom the little gift bag with a onesie inside.

Are you serious, she’s exclaiming. A weak smile and nod is all I manage.

They’re embracing him in a hug.

My chair is scraping as I stand up and race to their guest bathroom. It can’t wait. My knees groan with protest as I make another dive down to toilet level. When it’s over, I sit. Leaning against the single person shower, I look around. That same soft rug has found me again, and the aging faucet makes a weird noise every time it’s turned on. They haven’t redecorated in the years since we were kids. 

Tears leak before I can stop them.

Married. Pregnant. College degrees.

This situation is different, but it isn’t.

Again I’m weeping. I’m shaking and horrified.

7 more months leads to what if I can’t do this?

Within the weeks that follow I’ll learn about Hyperemesis Gravidarum and what it means for me. That swimming pools inexplicably help, and that Chef Boyardee Raviolis are the only thing our baby allows to join him in my abdomen. I’ll worry endlessly that my husband will be frustrated with me, that he’ll resent the ways he has to pick up the slack. 

But for now, he’s letting himself in. He’s sitting on the floor beside me. 

He sings “Eye of the Tiger” and then “We Are the Champions” as I’m tying up my hair and then wiping my mouth–hoping to get a hint of a smile out of me. He’s imitating the creaking faucet as he wets a cloth for my head. He’s making excuses for our absence at his friend's wedding. He’s driving to three different Walmarts when a pandemic has knocked out the Chef Boyardee supply. He’s rubbing my back, he’s kissing my forehead, he’s tucking me back into bed.

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That loud sink never does get fixed–and now it’s covering up the sound of my crying. 

My son is the one throwing up now. 

He always has, constantly, since the day he was born. But after three doctors and multiple trial periods, we found a formula that kept his tummy under control.

Until it didn’t.

Our son hasn’t kept a bottle down all week. He’s crying all the time. He has a low grade fever. In the middle of a trip, we see news reports everywhere. Our formula has been recalled. Bacterial infections are running rampant in infants who have been consuming it.

My mother in law is looking up codes to make sure our cans are part of the contaminated batch–but of course they are. My husband is asking questions. I’m snapping at him that I don’t know, I just don’t know!

I hand my son to his Gigi without being able to look at either of them. I take a minute to myself to “think”. The guest bathroom rug is as good a place as any to finally let the tears fall.

What will we do turns to I’ve been poisoning my child. Rationality doesn’t ever find me here, in this bathroom.

In my vulnerable emotional state, I imagine a world where I am all alone. 

We are not seventeen anymore. The year since our son was born has not been easy. My husband works full time–the doctor’s appointments, the vomit clean up, the walk-bounce-stroller cycle are all up to me. The challenges we face now will also be mine. I will watch our baby for signs that he isn’t recovering on his own–that we need to see a doctor. I will hold him as he cries inconsolably for a bottle he can’t have. I will find a way to make him smile as we both change clothes for the third time in a day.

My husband will not have the time to ask me on a date, or to tuck me into bed. I will not have time to indulge in those luxuries either. We are not who we once were.

Even still, he’s knocking at the door now, holding six different kinds of dairy-free milk. He’s up with me at two in the morning, learning new ways to soothe a sobbing baby who won’t drink any of them. You’re totally right, he’s saying, oozing certainty into every conclusion I tentatively reach. He’s cutting up food exactly the way I teach him. He’s telling everyone how brave our boy has been, how strong his wife. He’s sitting in front of me, listening to me debate giving a daily multivitamin to our child who only wants to eat peanut butter toast.

You need to go to work, I say.

It can wait, he replies.

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This week, there is no vomit, and a small part of me wishes there was. 

Instead, there is a white stick from CVS. I’m watching our toddler drive the cars his Gigi gave him around on the comfy rug, tracing the floral pattern. He’s played with them all day, since we arrived in town. I imagine him as a big brother. I smile. 

I wait. And I wait.

When the timer is up, I see only a single line. This month, I will not get the news I’m finally ready to receive again. 

My son’s cars crash into each other. He giggles, oblivious to my disappointment.

Tears are standing ready behind my eyes. I am tempted to make this about only me, to lose myself in the emotions.

But things are different--again. There is an ease in parenting that it took us a long time to find. I am not constantly overwhelmed, I am not losing myself in my attempts to make things perfect for my family. 

I am not seventeen and embarrassed.

I am not so sick that I can hardly care for myself.

I do not even feel alone.

There will be hard times again, and probably soon. I know this.

But I know my husband too, I tell myself.

I ruffle a tiny head of hair and send a text.

Before long he’s here with a hug that envelops my soul. A reminder that we’ll try again. A whisper of his love for me, how proud he is of the mother and woman I’ve become. He’s telling his friends it’s his turn to put our son to bed, and leaving the gathering early. He’s handing me a glass of wine and inviting me into the hot tub after our son’s fallen asleep.

We are not who we were at seventeen–not even close.

He’s my husband. He’s the father of my child. He has a career he loves and that he is moving up in. He’s ten times dorkier than I once believed. He traded in his sports car for a Ford Explorer. He’s supportive and stronger than I ever imagined, but an absolute infant when he’s sick.

We are not who we once were, it’s true, but not everything has changed.

He still smiles more than anyone I know. He can still fall asleep anywhere, anytime. He still orders whatever is most advertised on a restaurant menu. He still has a huge sweet tooth. He still inexplicably loves reality TV.

And like that one guest bathroom I keep finding myself hiding in, he’s always, always here.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love After Babies".

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Thank you for reading ebb+ flow!

2/17/23

A newsletter dedicated to remembering the changing of tides, the turning of seasons, and the view from both the mountain tops and valleys.See you next week,

Madison