Grasping

A personal essay by Lynae Barlow

I've always dreamed of going to college, just like I've always dreamed of being a mom.  But being a mom while in college has its challenges.

“Crap!” I shout way too loudly to be appropriate in a public bathroom.  A wet warmth covers my jeans seeping through to my skin.  It can only be one thing: pee.  No! No no no no no!  This can’t be happening to me.  Not now, not on the first day of class.  My brain kicks into emergency mode to come up with a solution.

I forcefully grab my two-week-old baby girl, lifting her off my lap.  My suspicion is confirmed as the smell of urine fills my nostrils and my eyes land on the puddle she left in my lap.  The little magician soaked me with her pee while keeping her own diaper completely dry.

Show off.

I pause and chuckle because I can’t help but feel slight pride in her skills.

The clock ticks, reminding me to hurry.  Every minute counts if I’m going to be to class on time.  I quickly free her from her wet onesie.  My shaking hands reach into the diaper bag fumbling frantically for a clean outfit.  Then I remember.  I didn’t pack any spare clothes because I didn’t have any spare clothes.  When was the last time I did laundry anyways?  Stupid!  How could I be so stupid?  And why did no one ever tell me to pack my own change of clothes in the diaper bag?  I quickly realize I have only two options: go to class covered in pee with a naked newborn or go home.  The answer seems all too easy, so why am I rushing out of the bathroom, weaving my stroller through the throngs of colorful backpacks and skinny jeans, heading to class?

Sitting in class I struggle to focus.  Red, blue, purple.  The bright PowerPoint slides blur together like billboards on the freeway.  I gaze around the room, distracted, and quickly realize I am not alone: a student silently scrolls through the black hole of Facebook, another stifles a yawn, but her flared nostrils and glossy wet eyes share her secret, all while one pupil challenges the clock to a staring contest.
“Why is it so warm in here?” I wonder.  The heat flirts with my heavy eyelids, teasing them, tempting them. I fight, still gazing around the classroom.

My eyes follow the gentle grunts I recognize until they land on the five pound, blue-eyed beauty in my arms.  There they linger and the words of my professor fade into a calm, rhythmic hum matching the steady rise and fall of my daughter’s tiny chest.   I feel the warmth of her breath on my arm as she lets out another squeal.

I sigh as I stare.

Her cheeks are pink from the warmth in the air.  Her plump lips are the temporary home to a spit bubble shrinking with every inhale and growing with every exhale, until its short life is ended by a heavy sigh.  Her rounded nose reminds me of my husband every time I look at her.  The deep crease between her nose and upper lip is where peach fuzz becomes visible when the light hits just right.  The little pearl-colored pimple is a result of my stress preceding her birth.  I pause.  Exhale.  Smile as I consider how connected we were, how connected we are.  Her bright eyes look up at me.  Those are mine.

Her fingers, dainty and delicate, reach up and wrap around my pinky.  I’m amused by her strength and remember how each of the nurses in the hospital commented on it.  She adjusts her grasp—opening and closing, shifting and clenching, tightening her grip, refusing to let go.  I don’t mind.  I don’t want her to let go either.

My thoughts are interrupted by the high pitch of the school bell accompanied by the rustle of students packing their bags.  I manage to focus long enough to catch the last few words of my professor.  “It looks like that’s the end of class for today.  Remember to complete your reading before Tuesday!” he yells over the sound of pens clicking, papers crinkling, and backpacks zipping.  A sea of students rush to the door, competing for their place in line as they hurriedly file out and join the stampede in the narrow hallway.

But I stay seated, not wanting to break our grasp.