Page 23 of Merrily Ever After
“The best thing about having a kid at this time of the year is all the fun stuff. At least get him a tree.”
“He’s a city boy,” I protest. “He doesn’t even know what a tree is.” But I do need to get one. I never intended to deprive him of the season, but my family never really celebrated Christmas growing up. At least not the glitzy, flashing side of it. But we’ve started to change our tune in the last few years and Sinead’sright. Tiernan’s old enough to start remembering some of this stuff now.
“What are you going to do anyway?” she asks.
“For Christmas?” I shrug. “This.”
“You can’t spend Christmas alone.”
“I’m literally not,” I say, gesturing toward his bedroom. “Le child. His party is next week before everyone disappears and on the day itself we’ll probably visit my parents for dinner.”
“Yeah, but …” She trails off, shrugging on her coat, and I brace myself eternally. Sinead might not remember it but, just like with Megan, we’ve had this conversation before. In many different situations and iterations. It’s the same one I’ve had with friends and family and full-on strangers.
It’s not about celebrating Christmas.
It’s about doing it while being single.
No matter how much it’s my choice, no matter how well I’m doing, it still comes up. And it always goes the same way. I just haven’t met the right guy. I need to care less about work. I’m being too picky. I don’t know what I want.
But that was never the problem. The problem was I knew exactly what I wanted for a very long time. And I wasted a lot of time thinking something was wrong with me for it.
I wanted my job. I wanted my apartment. I wanted that couch and these boots and the hiking trip to Iceland.
I wanted to be a mother. More than anything I wanted that.
And that confused them most of all.
Most people my age were still on the fence about becoming parents. Or knew it wasn’t for them. You’d think people would be glad I was trying to improve the declining birth rate, but even my family were unsure at first.
My sister, Molly, came all the way back from Chicago to talk to me about it. Notoutof it. But just to make sure.
And I was sure. More than sure.
And yes, sometimes I’d like help tidying up the toys or picking him up from nursery. Someone else to read him to sleep when I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But that’s a nanny. Not a partner. And I’m smart enough to know the difference.
“I’ll take him to Lapland next year,” I promise, and she takes the hint and drops it.
After she leaves, I finish my late-night snack and chug a glass of water before checking in on my sleeping offspring and his evening’s work. Dinosaur pictures as promised. If you squint your eyes a little. He’s not Picasso. Some mismatched circles, three big lines and—
Oh, wait, maybe he is Picasso.
“You’re a genius,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir.
I lean over to kiss him, hesitating as I brush the hair from his forehead. I don’t know why. The sight of him, probably. My whole world.
The feeling reminds me of those first few weeks after I had him when I would stand above his crib, terrified. Even watching him sleep, making sure he was still breathing, I was terrified. Convinced that the world would take him away from me. Thank god he never woke up or he probably would have developed a deep-rooted trauma of sleep demons or something. But I couldn’t help it.
I thought I was ready. I thought I wassoready. I’d always managed to do everything I’d ever set my mind to, but I felt so out of my depth it was like I was a different person. I couldn’t even understand how I was allowed to take him home from the hospital. Surely they should have made me do a degree first. Or sent a Garda to my house every three hours to make sure I wasn’t messing everything up.
I still feel like that sometimes. I don’t tell people, but I worry. That I won’t be enough. That he’ll need so much more than I cangive him. I know it’s normal. I know I’ll get through it. But it’s hard. It’s draining. It’s motherhood.
I press a kiss to his cheek, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
I guess it’s just kind of scary how much you can love another person.
Especially one who squirts ketchup into your pockets.
Chapter Two
