The Book of Ruth Chapter 13: The in-between

I like real things. Walks. Brisket. The dog and the meat. Meals. Clean floors, even if they’re a rarity. Books. Conversations. Plays. Well, good plays. Which are also a rarity. Shoes. Baby socks. Blonde hair that is slowly turning sandy. Mitts. Boots. Pots and pans. Kleenex. Soap. Things that help me in my role as a mother.

I went to the mall to buy an outfit for my cousin’s wedding. Without Ruth. While she's off at daycare doing...? I wonder what she’s up to. Who is hugging her. If she has cried a lot. If they know she takes a little while to process her feelings. She is not easily distracted. A big part of me knows she’s exactly where she belongs. I wish I knew the same for myself.

We didn't ask for a lot of help during her first 21 months. I don't quite know what to do with so much time and so little screaming.

I wait in the line at Zara. A child around Ruth’s age sits in a stroller behind me. His mom dekes out to look at a necklace. He whines, ‘Mumma’. I instinctively peek-a-boo to distract him until she scurried back. “Thanks” she says. “No worries. Mine’s the same.” We lock eyes for a moment. I walk out of the store. I think about how we're both probably a little jealous of the other. Her of my two hands-free shopping. Me of her shopping-with-child chaos. I was lucky. I got 21 months with Miss Ruth. And money talk aside, she was ready. And so was I. But I am also not ready. For my own reasons. Reasons that I put on hold and kept pushing off while keeping her alive.

I loved spending my days with Ruth. Where we did nothing but everything. The hours were filled with real things. Sand. Swings. Strollers. Snacks. And snacks. And snacks. Baby boots and coats. Crumbs. Baby nail clippers. Baby nail clippings. Tears. Hugs. Real things.

Unlike my job. My job doesn’t centre around real things. From what I remember of it, anyway. It’s been 21 months, after all. My job is like the reverse of that Jewish children’s tale Ruth insists on reading over and over and over again: Joseph Had A Little Overcoat. The one where a yid in a shtetl has a little overcoat that keeps getting upcycled until it eventually becomes a button that he then loses (get your shit together Joseph). Then he writes a story about it proving you can always make something from nothing. Ruth keeps tearing at its pages. Confusing it for a how-to book. Copywriters start with nothing and make it into something. Sometimes I feel my entire life is that little tale then the reverse of it. You can’t hold onto anything forever. But you can write it down. Like I’m doing right now. Her babyhood is gone.

I have this part of me that’s an asshole. It tells me things like ‘the robots are going to make you obsolete’. I used to worry about other writers. Now I worry about Jasper.ai taking over my whole gig. This asshole part likes to say ‘you’re trash at writing!’. Or ‘you can’t juggle it all! A kid. A dog. A job. Dinner. A relationship. Grooming! DRESSING YOURSELF AND YOUR CHILD EVERY. DAY? EVERY DAY, GABRIELLE!”. Not nice, eh? It’s important to tell that part when enough’s enough. It never helps to spiral. And besides. I know deep down I won’t have to dress myself. It’s WFH. pfft.

I’m torn. Lots of parts are talking to me these days. Transitions make the chatter in my mind loud and annoying.

This is my transition week. Before I go back to work. Well, back to paid work. I still have to do all the mothering work, house work, and dinner work like we all do. When I’m not working I’m working on myself. I guess that’s why I’m up at 1:29 am trying to find a point to this post other than just I'm sad and a little bit scared. Scared of the real world. It doesn't seem very kind to mothers and like being one so, so much.

I guess I wanted to write about the in-between week. I slept ‘till 11am this morning. I wake up in a panic “where’s Ruth?!’ I ask myself. I exhale. She’s with Janet, her favourite teacher. I hope Janet gives her enough hugs. We need 12 hugs a day for growth.

“Ruth doesn’t like it when the other children try to hug her’, Janet tells me when I pick her up. “Today was a hard day.” I don't’ know what to do with the information. Because the day is over and I wasn’t there. I won’t be there. I give Ruth a big hug before putting her in her carseat. “There’s at least one’ I say to myself. Eleven more to go before bedtime.

“You’ll be less worried when you’re working. Your mind will be on other things.” Thomas reassures me. Maybe he’s right. I hope he’s right. I send my freelance client my final copy doc for their website. “Thanks Gabbie. Such a pleasure working with you. Send us your invoice.” I get no feedback. My copy doc, shipped off to someone else. Just like Ruth.

I’m nervous. I’m facing an unknown with my new job and I'm always nervous to start something new. So I focus on the real things. Brisket’s paws now that I have both hands to snuggle him during the day. Hot dog buns for dinner. Computer keys. Folding Ru’s laundry. Jk, I just throw her clothes in the drawer. Parenting books because I can’t help myself. Toys. Coffee.

I take a shower in the middle of the day. Something I’ve rarely done since she was born. I let the water wash over me. I turn the handle to cold for the last minute. Trying to cue my parasympathetic nervous system to kick in. I brush my hair and look in the mirror. I used to wonder what I’d look like as an adult when I was a kid. Now she’s staring back at me. I blink. I wonder what Ruth will look like when she’s my age. If she’ll be happy with the decisions we made? If I’ll be happy with the decisions we made.

I think about the amount of time I get with her a day. A couple of hours rushing in the morning and few hours before bed. Two days on the weekend. Three weeks holiday. That’s plenty of time to get those 12 hugs a day in. Right?

I focus on the real things. Like her hair brush. Toddler shoes. Warm milk. The tiny hand I hold while she drifts off to sleep. My voice as it coos “It’s time for rest. I love you. I love you. I love you.” I say the same thing to myself as I try to drift off. I think about my favourite real thing; hope. The kind of hope that knows loving means letting go a little bit at a time.