Just Breathe. Honey Perkel

I was planning to leave.

      I waited for Jo as long as I could and when I finally stood up, Brian began his usual tirade. I held him and tried to console him, told him Mommy had to go, but that I’d be back soon. But he was unmanageable. If I didn’t leave right now, I’d be late for my appointment. I told this to Ann.

      “I’d never leave my child if he was this upset,” Ann told me sharply.

      I began to panic. Jo still hadn’t returned and I couldn’t cancel my appointment just because my baby was upset by my leaving. I knew Ann was thinking I was a terrible mother, but ...

      “I’m so sorry, Ann, but I have to go.” I was all but pleading for her to understand. I wasn’t a terrible mother. I loved my child, and Jo would be coming home any moment. Brian would be all right with her.

      Ann stood there and gave me the most disapproving look as I thrust Brian at her. I hurried out the door.

      Chapter 14

      Neither Bob, nor I knew what to do to help Brian when he had one of his tantrums. The terrible twos had leaped upon us with a vengeance. They were wicked, filling us with frustration and fear. To be a parent wasn’t easy, even with a toddler. We never thought for a moment it would be.

      And still, I ached for another baby. Bob played along for awhile.

      “Do you want to look into open adoption?” he asked me one day.

      Open adoption? We didn’t know much about it. But it was an option and at this point we needed to have a Plan B since Karen wasn’t coming up with a baby through the traditional way.

      We went to a meeting at a downtown clinic with other parents who’d gone the route of open adoption. We met mothers who’d given up their babies and couples who’d been there with open arms to receive them. But we were scared. Neither of us felt comfortable seeing another woman through her pregnancy, having her come to our home for occasional visits, sharing letters, phone conversations, and holidays. Open adoption was not for us.

      Besides, Bob didn’t want another child. Not really. When he tried to explain his reasons for stopping at one I wanted to hold my hands over my ears and block out his words.

      “Maybe if we wait a little longer, something will come up,” I begged, tears falling down my face. “There must be another baby out there for us.” It hadn’t been part of my dream to have only one.

      Bob and I had always thought alike, had always been on the same page, as it were. Now that had changed. I didn’t agree with any of his reasons that we shouldn’t have a larger family, but I listened. He was adamant. Brian was beginning to be a handful, he acknowledged. I wanted to scream.

      With only one income, money was tight. We’d have to make sacrifices, Bob went on to say. So we would eat out less and not bother to go on vacations. Everyone made sacrifices, didn’t they? I tried not to scream.

      I continued to listen and in the deepest part of me I knew he was right. But my heart ached. I thought about all of the baby clothes, toys, and furniture I’d stored away in the attic, just waiting for our next child and the one after that. Was it possible that maybe Bob and I could make it work? Perhaps I could do some freelance writing for the Oregonian or magazines. Maybe Brian would eventually settle down. Maybe.

      Months passed. Brian was not settling down. He was having anxiety attacks whenever I left him. He was still having tantrums. And we had no other money coming in other than Bob’s monthly pay check, which was not conducive for a larger family.

      It was about that time that I grew ill. It started one night when we were grocery shopping at Fred Meyer’s. I was standing in the checkout line with Bob. Brian was seated in the front of the grocery cart. All of a sudden my stomach began to lurch with terrible pain. Then the nausea began. I gripped the handle of the cart. No! No! I didn’t want to be sick here! I held on for dear life hoping this awful feeling would pass. It did.

      It happened again a week later when I was shopping at the neighborhood mall. And several evenings after that when we went out for dinner. What was happening to me?

      The attacks became debilitating. I was afraid to leave the house. I began to rely on Bob to do the grocery shopping and other errands. I made excuses for invitations extended to us. I stayed away from everyone, becoming a recluse in my home.

      The doctor diagnosed the problem as panic attacks. He prescribed Donnatal, a mild stomach relaxer.

      “You need to get away,” Laura told me one afternoon as we sat in her backyard watching Kari and Brian playing in the wading pool. “Just for a weekend,” she added. “We’ll watch Brian.”

      I gave the idea some thought. “Bob and I talked about going up to Seattle for a couple of days.”

      “Well, then go.”

      I nodded. “Maybe we will.”

      Bob and I planned a trip to Washington the following week. It was Labor Day. A long weekend. We’d be able to stay an extra day. We made reservations at the Seattle Hilton, packed our bags, and kissed Brian goodbye. He was calm the morning we left. He knew Laura and liked to play with Kari. He seemed okay that we were going away.

      The weather was beautiful on that day in early September. It had been nearly two years since Bob and I had gone anywhere by ourselves and I had big expectations for the weekend. I had packed my sexiest nightie — long, sweeping, with a lace bodice. I had polished both my finger and toe nails. I’d taken time to restyle my hair. I was excited. Bob and I were looking forward to a wonderful weekend together.

      However, I had a panic attack immediately upon entering the hotel, which worsened as the afternoon waned. I took double the dose of my stomach pills and spent the remainder of the day lying on the bed.

      Instead of a romantic dinner in one of Seattle’s many wonderful restaurants, we ended up downstairs in the hotel’s coffee shop. Bob ordered a steak dinner, and I, a bowl of soup, which I couldn’t eat. I felt so sick all weekend, and guilty that I’d ruined Bob’s vacation. All I could do was lie on the bed. With stomach pains. With terrible nausea. Downing my pills every few hours.

      Chapter 15

      I felt sad. Somedays I found myself upstairs running my hands along Brian’s high chair and crib, fingering the tiny shirts and pants and shoes I’d packed away. I couldn’t live like this, a knot in my stomach every time I thought of not having another child. As long as these baby things remained in our house, I would always be holding out hope that one day we could have another baby. There was only one thing to do — sell everything.

      So while Brian took his afternoon naps, Laura and I priced things for the sale. I decided on a few things to keep: the little checked sunsuit he’d worn the first day Bob and I saw him, a stuffed animal, the first honey-colored curl I cut from his head when he was nearly two. Things a mother would do.

      Chapter 16

      Fearing Brian was getting too attached to me, Bob and I decided to enroll him in the play group at our synagogue. As expected, he loved it. He’d always enjoyed playing with other children.

      Though Brian cried, even screamed when I said good-bye, in time he realized I would be back for him. The separation proved to be good for both of us. Brian was learning to become more social, and I had three mornings a week to myself.

      * * *

      Even at two and a half, if Brian didn’t like what I gave him for lunch or simply didn’t want to eat it, he’d sling his plastic Sesame Street plate across the table and onto the floor. I tried time out. I tried skipping his favorite cookie after his meal. I tried giving him more things he liked to eat. He wasn’t a picky eater. It almost seemed as though he wanted to act out simply to frustrate me, to see me squirm. He was much too young to figure all that out. Or was he? Sometimes I wasn’t quite sure.

      It was always about making a decision. To act out or not on his part. To come