Reflections on a juicebox

This morning, I dropped Maggie off at preschool, switched the carseat into the car of my mother-in-law, who was kind enough to meet me at the school, then headed downtown on my way to "work." I use the word work loosely because 3-4 hours a week doesn't quite feel like a real job. (Though I do real work and get a real paycheck, so perhaps it's more real than I like to make it.) Back in January, I had lunch with a former co-worker, and I happened to mention that Maggie was in preschool. The next day I got a call from my old boss: "So I hear you've got some free time on your hands ..." And in true one-thing-led-to-another fashion, I agreed to come back and help them out once a week.

So this morning, I decided to stop for coffee on my way to "work." I'm sitting in the drive-thru when I glance down and see an empty purple juicebox in my front cupholder. Well there's another thing I need to clean up, I thought. Then I look over my shoulder into the back seat. No carseat. I momentarily freeze as my mind compares these two things -- the presence of the juicebox and the absence of the carseat -- and what each represents. This is how things used to be, I remembered, peeking again at the carseat-less back. In my other life, I made this commute for nearly nine years, driving to a job I sincerely enjoyed, working with people and students I loved. I was lucky, and life was good.

My eyes return to the juicebox. In my other life ... There were no purple juiceboxes in my cupholders in that other life -- I didn't even buy juiceboxes in that life. In that other life, I didn't have a backseat strewn with Goldfish crackers, half-broken pretzels, and sippy cups rolling around. That me knew no greasy fingerprints on the window, no collection of Wiggles CD's, no change of clothes in the back. No monogrammed bag full of toys and books. No yellow-and-pink-flowered carseat cover. No constant chatter from that carseat. No carseat.

No Maggie.

That me didn't plan, four years ago when it happily found itself pregnant, on quitting the job it sincerely liked with people and students it loved. That me wondered out loud, three and a half years ago, what it would do at home for four months of maternity leave. That me never, ever wanted to be a stay-at-home mother. That me knew its life was about to change, knew it in that vague way everyone told it life would change, but was powerfully ignorant as to just how much.

In my other life, I didn't know the feeling of seeing new life emerge from myself. I didn't know my first thoughts would involve my own sacrifice, even death, for this new being. I didn't know I'd spend entire nights sleeping upright on the couch so my refluxy infant could sleep on my chest. I didn't know I would struggle so fiercely to breastfeed, and then do so for two years. In my other life, I didn't know a gummy smile and tiny giggle could rouse such happiness, such instinctive protection, such fear. I didn't know I'd tiptoe into a dark nursery hundreds -- no, probably thousands -- of times to check on a baby who'd just figured out how to roll over. I didn't know I could be thrilled by a first word spoken, first tooth popping through, first inch crawled, first tentative steps taken. I didn't know I'd fall head over heels in love with anyone who cared for my child 1/1,000th as much as I did.

Love. I didn't know I was physically or emotionally capable of loving something so much. I didn't know my heart could contain such feeling. I didn't know patience. Strength. Joy. Contentment. Love. That other life? That other me? It didn't have a clue.

"Ma'am? Here's your coffee. Sorry about the wait. You have a wonderful day, hun."

I am jarred back to reality as Ja'isha from Sonic cheerfully interrupts this exercise in contrast. I quickly shake the fog out of my head, smile, and thank her as I tuck my coffee into the other front cupholder -- right next to that purple juicebox. I am lucky, and life is good.