It was a straightforward and, even in the hard moments, an unexpectedly euphoric experience. Phoebe was born on a searing hot, bright day. Reconciling my daughter and son was like day and night. But a few minutes later, alone with my son and my own harried thoughts, I felt lost again in the chaos of hormones, trying to make sense of my new reality. Postpartum was an entropic time she got it. It was innately intimate to have someone else care for your child, and for a brief moment I felt the surge of connection that I'd been after. Mid-morning, while rocking my fussy baby to sleep, I got an email from her teacher - I'd made her laugh. The day I sent the breast ice pack, my longing to connect with Phoebe's caregivers had reached a new height. The lunchbox communications were delightful, unpredictable, and suggestive of a world I could only orbit from the outside. She exuded an alluring parental confidence. Phoebe's teacher was a down-to-earth, effortlessly charming woman with slightly older kids. They contained tantalizing fragments in her teacher's curly shorthand - "Phoebe slept for an hour and ten minutes today," or "congratulations on Phoebe's first day of toileting!" They differed markedly from the more officious digital communications we periodically received. Occasionally, though, information did reach us via intriguing post-it notes that appeared seemingly at random amid the untouched turnips I unpacked from Phoebe's lunchbox. Intellectually, I admired their insistence on attending to my child rather than my feelings, but I couldn't help but wish for an endless stream of updates. This wasn't the sort of place that would be snapping photos for us and texting all day long.
At our orientation, we were told not to expect much by way of day-to-day communication from the school - no news was good news.
At drop offs I found myself eyeing the dino lunchbox hanging in a neighboring cubby and wondering what it held inside - hoping that I was getting this new thing right.Īs we adjusted to our new routine, the lunchbox took on another significance. While she ate breakfast, I stood heavily at the kitchen counter, peeling Tokyo turnips and slicing them into translucent, moon-like disks, thinking of Alice. Feeling at loose ends emotionally, I threw myself into preparing her food. Phoebe was born in the early days of the pandemic, and in the months before my son was born, I struggled to adjust to being apart from her for the first time. I was also overwhelmed with gratitude for the school and filled with an aspirational seriousness of purpose in keeping with their sincerity.
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