Postpartum—A Conversation in Letters Never Sent, and: When I Was Straight

Postpartum—A Conversation in Letters Never Sent, and: When I Was Straight Caridad Moro-Gronlier (bio) Postpartum—A Conversation in Letters Never Sent For Maureen Seaton August, 2002 It's true–I'd always loved the delicacy of your hands.the way they held me as if I were priceless. —"The Sculpture Garden" Dear Maureen, A woman I am in love with came to see me this afternoon. She brought Calla Lilies, a six-pack of blue onesies and a copy of Furious Cooking. "You're going to love this book," she said, and placed it into the hand I stretched out toward her. I took the book, but I didn't believe her. I was one-week postpartum and all about my newborn, awash in hormones and inadequacy; She was a first-year grad student and all about you, awash in sonnets and queer theory. We were miles apart, but your lines of verse floated in the chasm between us, a tether. I grabbed at it and began to read. XO, C— End Page 193 September, 2002 Everything you ever hoped for could come crashing in like God's foot while he lies in heaven with his big cigar and his TV blasting static. —"The Queen of Jersey" Dear Maureen, How is it that I have lived for 33 years—La Edad de Cristo, my mother says, and I'm not sure if that means I'm at a prime age for crucifixion or resurrection—without ever having known the true meaning of exhaustion. How many times have I used the claim of fatigue as cajolement, cudgel, entreaty, excuse without really knowing what the hell I was talking about? This weakness is an entity, an incubus that has hollowed out my bones, wrung me out until the only thing I feel is ache. I've lost my gait. I shuffle. I can feel every ounce of strength leached away in droplets of breast milk that take the best of me, but even my best is not enough to satiate my baby. XO, C— September, 2002 I am so tired and it's the end of the day and my well is dry.I say, oh God, go to sleep. —"A Brief History of Faith" Dear Maureen, Every feeding is a cross-country marathon. Every snatch of sleep is a sprint. XO, C— End Page 194 October, 2002 She said: There is nothing I would ever do to harm you. —"The Queen of Jersey" Dear Maureen, I am terrified of the La Leche League lactation dominatrix who calls me every day to inquire about my milk production. She is as stern as a sergeant: You're not hydrating enough! Don't tell me you're one of those lazy mommies? It's not hard, why are you making it so? She tends to soften if I cry (I always cry), but mostly she's consistent in her insistence that I must not give up. Every mother can make the milk her child requires! Are you a loser mommy? The unsaid lurks in the buzz of the landline between us—I am a loser mommy because my baby is still hungry. I am a loser mommy. (What / the fuck, they say, and hurry home to safe food, yours/ a rank hint of ablution and sacrifice, although/no one recognizes the danger. —"Furious Cooking") XO, C— End Page 195 November, 2002 It is said that she lay in bed three days and two nights while her body slept off … she awoke to the sound of water breaking and left her bed to begin a new life. —"Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death" Dear Maureen, After telling my mother that at three months the baby is still waking up every two hours to feed, she informs me she's had enough of my mammary martyrdom and shows up unannounced at bedtime and slips the baby a bottle of contraband formula as I take the shower she insists I need. (Honey, you need a good cleaning. Your face is covered with a dark green veil and your eyes have lost their watery sheen. — "Cleaning St. Anne") By the time she confesses what...