She remembers to wear socks this time. Her feet rest in the steel stirrups, and they remind her of her boys, fresh-faced and snug in their car seats.
Her twins. To this day, she calls them “Baby A” and “Baby B.” Now they are Kindergartners, and their eyes, especially Baby B’s, darken at the endearment. “Stop it, Mom.” She winces at the single syllable. “We’re not babies anymore.”
“You’ll always be my babies,” she says, and means it. In her dreams, she still feels their hot baby breath, slumped heavy after feedings. Some nights, she awakens, aching with phantom pains.
Their softness is now pings and sinew. Baby A lost his first tooth. They give sandpaper kisses when told.
In the waiting room, she flips through a tattered Star, observing the ponderous breasts and bellies of her fellow patients. The first time mothers, thumbing dog-earred copies of What to Expect, the second-timers, resting full caff lattes on their tummies.
She places her hand on her flat stomach, toned from planks and early morning spin sessions.
“Two and through,” she tells people. “I hate the baby phase.”
And most of the time, she means it. They can camp as a family. Swim. They are skiing next month.
Her novel’s bud is just starting to peek from the soil.
And yet? When the doctor tells her, as her socky feet peek above her, “I can’t find your IUD,” she feels something move within her.
And she hopes for another chance.
This week, the Red Writing Hood prompt is asking us to attack a writing weakness. I decided to attempt less dialogue, more description/narrative. Let me know how I did!
The first line–the socks and the stirrups–it’s just so true. It sets me up to like her, and you follow through on the promise.
Thanks. I’ve been really trying to work on opening lines recently.
“She still feels their hot baby breath, slumped heavy after feedings.”
“Their softness is now pings and sinew.”
So lovely.
And OHMYGOD I always wanted that conversation with my ob/gyn.
But my stupid IUD stayed put.
You had me right there in her head. Mostly because it’s my head, too.
And also you’re a great writer so there’s that.
p.s. I’m supposed to be planking? Crap.
You are too kind. Want to know a secret? Lean in.
(They couldn’t find my IUD yesterday. That part is true.)
I also love the lines Julie mentioned. And this: They give sandpaper kisses when told. (because oh, I am going to be so achingly sad when my own babies stop the spontaneous, slobbery kisses.)
Your description here? It doesn’t feel like a weak point. And I relate to it so much. Ecept we went for a more permanent solution. This makes me wish I had gone with the IUD
(Of course, my kids are sleeping peacefully right now. I may feel differently at 3 am.)
Yes, with J’s vomit today, I feel fully content with two. Of course, this is “fiction.”
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“I can’t find the IUD” sounds like the start of a horror novel
I like the “less conversation” approach . . . because I know you’ve been working on just that, this works really, really well.
Hee! I think there might be a novel in what happens in a marriage when birth control fails!
Thanks so much. It’s a stretch for me.
I just loved the line, “I can’t find your IUD”. It holds both horror and hope..doesn’t it? I would feel a RUSH of emotion at that moment and I think you captured it really well.
that feeling of “what if???”
and of course, my heart stopped and smiled at the mention of twins , ones that are growing so fast and fully. You have me from “Baby A and Baby B”
and I love the new look of your blog, it’s wonderful
Thanks, Kir. I think when I decided to focus on the feet, I started thinking in twos. I stole the Baby A and B from my friend, who still calls them that. Against their will.
And thanks for loving the blog, too. I had a good helper!
I’m glad you felt that feeling of hope and maybe….that was my goal!
I love the description of the waiting room and the juxtaposition between first and second time moms.
I’ve been both moms!
I have to agree with others… “I can’t find your IUD..” is a great line along with her reaction afterwards.
I think that you did a great job with the descriptions. It seems like that part if writing is what many of us struggle with. It’s something that I know I have to keep in mind and remind myself of it as I write.
I’m glad I’m not alone!
Fiction is always just fiction. Sure – I believe it. (and in the existense of unicorns.)
Delightful piece. I loved the socked feet, A & B “baby,” the waiting room.
Yum.
Fiction is always pretty close to my bones. “Fiction” is what I should call it.
This was so rich. The pangs about the babies not being babies anymore. Oh, how sad I am to hear only “Mom” these days… and their softness turning to “ping & sinew”. This could be my life! And I was never THAT into the baby phase.
I love the descriptions of the different moms in the waiting room.
I worked on more description & less dialogue myself this week. I like to let my characters do all the talking.
I do too. But I was pleased by this exercise; it’s good to fight through our natural, easy tendencies.
I’ve heard that “I can’t find your IUD” line too. Even had an inconclusive ultrasound. It was a scary period for sure!!
The narrative is just right, IMO. You show exactly what you should in exactly the right places to bring the story home to the reader, as it should.
I think you put the reader nicely into her head. She’s someone who sounds normal, someone to whom people can relate. Nicely done.
Also, where the eff IS that IUD?
xo
That is my worse fear and, yet, who knows… you brilliantly conveyed the feelings of your character and allowed room for others to see themselves in the story. Nice!