Layla, You’ve Got Me on My Knees

Today is my sweet Layla’s birthday, and all I can think about is the ways in which the history of my marriage is intertwined with her identity.  Don’t get me wrong, she is definitely her own unique little person, but she is also our karmic child, the one who seemed destined to come to us.

Maybe it’s her conception that makes me feel this way.  Jonah was about 18 months and we were contemplating having a second, but we kept vacillating about when to do it.  One night we went to dinner at some friends’ house, and they had a boy and a girl exactly two years apart and they got along so well that we were charmed by the idea of doing the same.  I just happened to be ovulating then, so in our typical intuitive way we said, let’s do it (and do it we did).  Within a few hours I knew I was pregnant.  I don’t know how I knew, but I knew.

Pretty soon I started feeling nauseated on a regular basis.  Then I started bleeding, bright red blood that they tell you is not the good kind.  I was convinced that I was miscarrying, but on the day before Thanksgiving, while my parents visited, they did an ultrasound and we saw a heart beat, a grain-sized heartbeat.  Weeks seven through ten, I was exhausted and felt like a zombie, moving through my daily existence like a shell of my former self.  I lay on the couch and made Jonah bring books to me to read to him.  My ex, who had seen me so energetic during my first pregnancy, was very frustrated.  He complained about my laziness.  Note to men: Pregnant women are never lazy.  It just takes a lot of energy to grow the organs and limbs of a new life.

Unfortunately, the nine months that I spent gestating my beautiful Layla were the worst ever of my marriage.  I’ll spare you the details, but I will say that the constant dramatic fighting made me worry about her health.  The doctors scare you with stories about how stress hormones adversely affect the fetus.  I thought I could literally feel the cortisol coursing through my body every time we fought.  Then she was born and everything seemed to change.  Luckily, she was not the fussy baby that I feared she would be.  Instead she was easy and mellow, Jonah adored her, and our family felt complete.  Peace descended upon the house, and for a while, we were happy again.

Layla is now six, and she is the child that most resembles us both.  She is certainly the one who pushes us to accept parts of ourselves, and each other, that we don’t always like.  When we broke up, my ex couldn’t wait to be free of my constant demands on him and his time.  Layla?  Well she’s a bossy little one who tells him what to do all the time.  I, on the other hand, was eager to be free of my ex’s mood swings, but now I have hers to deal with.  Instead of letting that push my buttons, though, I approach her with compassion, teaching her ways of soothing herself that my ex never learned.

My ex and I also did this tense dance around time.  I was always in a hurry and he had a slower, Caribbean rhythm.  This became a very frustrating combo.  Layla’s relationship with us both seems to reenact this conflict.  She’s impatient with her father, always urging him to move faster.  Yet with me, she’s so slow and stubborn that getting her out of the house is like herding a cat.  Layla, you’ve got me on my knees.  Layla, I’m begging darling please.

So there we have it.  Even though we have broken up, we are still forced to deal with each other’s issues, albeit in an adorably sweet way.  I guess we should have realized this when we named her.  Little did we know that she would be a lesson and inspiration for our peaceful divorce.  Clapton’s lyrics say it all.

Let’s make the best of the situation

Before I finally go insane.

Please don’t say we’ll never find a way

And tell me all my love’s in vain.

As you all may have realized from this blog, my love for my husband will never, ever go in vain.

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