How Uncomplicated

I have never feared the virus. To be honest, as an introvert, it is a dream to go into lockdown. Time slowing, the simplicity of existence, mundane silence–how uncomplicated. Jeremy keeps saying that we owe it to ourselves to be a pair of bored New Yorkers while we can.

We can focus on the things we keep tucking away in corners to blissfully forget for a season or two. The kitchen needs a coat of paint. The filing cabinet needs to be organized.

Jeremy and I made a list, tangled in laughter and sheets, of things we hope to achieve in quarantine. Some are simple, like finally framing our ten-year anniversary photos and putting them on the wall. And some are a little more complicated, like getting pregnant.

We have always talked about a baby hypothetically. The same way we talk about getting Beatles tickets if they were all still alive and touring, or taking the next flight to Paris on a whim, for a weekend of espresso and bread dipped in oil. It has been a future intention we tease through sequin smiles when we drink too much wine or see a toddler in corduroy overalls on the subway.

When we got married at twenty-one, anything serious seemed to be put off for wiser days. We have always laughed about how much time we have but didn't realize how quickly time was passing until now, locked in our two-bedroom apartment, making bolognese and reading fiction, night after night after repetitive night.

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I have never feared the virus. I am lucky to not have pre-existing health issues that could make me more susceptible to sickness. Jeremy doesn't either. We are yoga-doing, kale-eating, kombucha-drinking, granola kids that hike for fun. In memory, my body has only betrayed me a handful of times–like when I puked on my high school crush after eating cafeteria food that had a questionable odor. But, I blame my teenage discretion and talking too close to his face in hopes that my cartoonish batting of eyelashes and over-drenched perfume would cause him to hypnotically lean in and kiss me.

So it wasn't a surprise that after only six months after taking out my IUD, I am now pregnant. My sister, Rachel, keeps raving about how lucky I am to conceive so quickly. But it is just my way. I married the first guy I seriously dated. I got the job of my dreams three months after holding my university degree in finance.

And now, I am six months pregnant. I just know what I want, I guess.

I sit at my desk, completing spreadsheets and taking Zoom calls, and watch my skin stretch over a tiny heartbeat. Gold stretch marks, like a road map to all the plans I have for them.

All the days seem to bleed into one, with the only difference from yesterday being the new articles of clothing that don't fit anymore. But today was different. A movement by the window interrupted the clacking of my keyboard. I looked up to assume a pigeon or crow, but to my surprise, sitting on the window sill, with grace and poise, was a white feathered owl, angelically shimmering in the light. I called out to Jeremy, working at his desk in the bedroom, to come and see.

Jeremy ran through the door in a panic, thinking I was in sudden pain. I put my finger over my lips to silence him and pointed to the window. Once he realized that I wasn't in immediate danger, he spoke through a delighted gasp, "I didn't think we could get owls in the city."

I responded, "I didn't either. She's beautiful."

"She? Why do you think it's a she?"

"I don't know," I guessed, as I stroked my growing belly.

"Did you know most owls mate for life?" he said, with a tender smile stretching across his cheeks.

I didn't know. He raced off to a meeting, kissing my belly, then forehead on the way out. I stared out of the window, thrilled to see something other than the brick wall of the adjacent apartment building, then I grabbed my phone to take a picture.

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I have never feared the virus. In fact, the pregnancy made me appreciate being home even more. I work in stretchy pants and pee anytime I want, without Becky from HR judging the size of my trampled blatter. Plus, my home office has kept a distant friend. The owl never left. I was right–a girl. Three perfect eggs are nestled in the hollowed cavity of the tree outside the window, her fluff and feathers keeping them warm as they grow.

Jeremy named her Beatrice. I told him that only he could make an owl sound like a 1930's housewife. He jokingly told me that I can call her Bea if I have a problem with it. I asked if naming our baby will happen in a similar fashion. He smiled, "Beatrice has a nice ring to it. But we don't know if it is a girl or a boy."

It's a girl. Our doctor told me over the phone after I promised I wouldn't ask. Maybe I just need something exciting to cling to in these days that all seem the same–something that brings me joy beyond the peppermint tea breaks, the end call button on Zoom, Rachel's warm voice on the other end of the phone, and the gentle cooing from Beatrice as she hums a prayer to her young, willing them to hatch.

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I have never feared the virus. Jeremy and I don't enjoy going out much anymore anyway. Most of my drunken nights were spent on a fake ID and a broken ego at nineteen. I used to drink with the purpose to throw up and do it again the next day. Now, with only one week to go, the thought of purposely throwing up, makes me want to involuntarily throw up. All I want to do is nap in our new rocking chair by the window, watching Beatrice pull out feathers from her own body and nestle her eggs while my eye lips droop.

I have begun my maternity leave, and with these barren streets with no place to venture to, Jeremy and I have quickly made all the preparations needed for our baby to enter our little home. Our online orders filled with diapers, baby proofing materials, and more books a baby will know what to do with, have flooded our lobby for weeks. The concierge gave us a warning notice one day after we weren't available to sign for a large crib when Jeremy ran to the bodega for milk and I was in one of my dead-to-the-world third-trimester naps. We signed the notice ensuring that any deliveries over 30 pounds would be received by one of us in the lobby and remove the concierge from any liability to the item. We bought him a gift basket of chocolate and coffee to apologize. He still frowns at us when we enter the lobby.

We have transformed the office into a baby room with gender-neutral pastel yellow walls and a small statement wall. Jeremy picked out wallpaper with beautifully illustrated owls. I am starting to think that he is just as fond of our friend in the window as I am. One evening I even caught Jeremy leaving sunflower seeds on the window sill when Beatrice wasn't in the nest. The next morning he subtly poked his head in the door to see if the seeds were gone. He smiled when they were.

Beatrice's eggs hatched–all but one. I cried as I rubbed my swollen belly. Beatrice still tried to warm the egg for days after, her panic evident as she divided time for caring for the shell and feeding her featherless young. Even without even seeing our baby girl, I know, I would sit on an egg forever, hoping for life.

A few days after, I woke to find the egg was gone. Beatrice must have disposed of the dead. I ached as I saw her resilience, caring for her two surviving babies with such tenderness while I read Dr. Seuss out loud to my womb.

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I have never feared the virus. We chose to use the hospital, even though I had internet paranoia of the baby contracting the virus in the delivery room. It was the first time in a really long time, I felt like life didn't go as planned.

Our baby girl wasn't flipping–just as stubborn and insistent as her mother. After hours of strenuous labor and panting through the pain with bated breath, the nurses told us that she was breech, leaving no choice but to perform a C-section. I cried out of exhaustion and fear, knowing that our baby's safety was beyond my control.

I wasn't naive enough to expect a short, painless labor, but I imagined my delivery would happen in a textbook type of way–Jeremy squeezing my hand as our little girl compassionately entered the world, her cry echoing mine. Our perfect little family.

But it didn't. It all happened in a frenetic fog. Within ten minutes of receiving the news, I was getting hooked up to anesthesia, surrounded by tubes and chords and buttons. I was rolled into a room with blinding lights and strangers in blue gowns. I was helpless and terrified.

I was in and out of a haze while a doctor made an insition across my abdomen. Jeremy watched from a distance wearing a medical gown and a concerned expression, breathing through sobs.

And then she was here.

Pink and perfect. And as I held our angel, with drugs still pumping through my veins, all I hoped at that moment was for Beatrice to still be in the window when we returned home, so I could introduce them to each other.

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I have never feared the virus. It is kind of nice not to have any visitors. No aunts telling me how to sleep train, or girlfriends telling me "breast is best." It is just Jeremy, the baby, and I. My parents had a close friend contract the virus, delaying their visit for a few weeks, just in case they are asymptomatic. Rachel and her boyfriend will come in a few months once they can both get time off of work and fly across the country. Jeremy's parents and siblings won't come until Christmas.

We named her Bea. We are telling everyone that Bea is from Barbara, after Jeremy's grandmother. But our little secret is from our angel in the window, who brought me peace and joy throughout the end of my pregnancy.

Beatrice's little owlets are growing fluffy feathers and opening their eyes. I sometimes hold Bea up to the window and imagine them communicating, like all babies have an understanding in some way, a secret language of sort, when everything is new and beautiful and there is always something to smile about.

I haven't smiled in days it seems. Bea seems to be doing it for both of us. Most days I find it hard to even get out of bed or the rocking chair. My abdomen is tender, and I am so tired. The euphoria that Bea brought to us has seemed to fade days after bringing her home. I can tell myself I am happy, but my emotions seem to be delayed. Even when mom called to tell us that they have booked their flights and will be here in three weeks.

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I have never feared the virus. My parents are retired and don't have much contact with the outside world, but even their small group of friends have been infected. Mom said they will isolate for the entire three weeks before visiting, just in case. But Bea is so small and perfect. I told Jeremy that I don't want them holding Bea. They can look from afar, but it just isn't safe.

Rachel told me I am being paranoid. I hung up on her and cried. She doesn't know what it's like to have something so helpless and small, that you made, and only you are responsible for their life. Rachel has a new boyfriend each season, it seems. She is usually found laying on a Malibu beach, drinking rum with her current experiment, telling herself she will go back to school one day after she is done "finding herself."

Rachel has no idea what it's like to commit to a marriage, or carry a child in your womb, only for strangers to cut it out of you because you aren't good enough to do it yourself. Rachel has no idea what it's like to work 70 hour weeks, just so you can continue paying off your multi-million dollar compact apartment, that you soon will have to leave because something the size of a basketball makes you start wondering about moving to the suburbs where the schools are better and the taxes are lower.

Rachel doesn't get that everything I once loved and wanted is fading like dust in the wind. Now everything I am, my entire purpose, is to keep a defenseless little being alive and well. So no, mom and dad won't be holding Bea. At least until she has her first round of vaccinations, and she can support her head.

But she can't right now. Sometimes I just stare at her in the crib, hoping that she will continue breathing, moving, being. I hum in the dim light and look out to Beatrice, holding a gaze that only mothers can share. Only Beatrice seems to understand how precious a little one is. Sometimes I don't even want Jeremy to hold Bea.

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I have never feared the virus. But I have come accustomed to being home. It is more an annoyance than anything to go to the doctor. Bea is in the 90th percentile for weight. The doctor said she is healthy and growing beautifully.

On the drive home, Jeremy brought up the three words that I shut down when the doctor spoke them. Post-partum depression.

The subtle suggestion turned into raised defiant voices until Bea woke up crying in her car seat. I told him he won’t understand the heaviness of motherhood. My womb felt her. My body formed her. My breasts feed her. She is mine.

Jeremy, annoyed, pulled out science and rationality–like he always does. Something about my hormones and estrogen and progesterone levels out of regulation causing my serotonin to be mismatched. He told me that it is okay to feel sadness and be out of control emotionally. I told him to never use the phrase "out of control" ever again and screamed for him to pull over and let me out.

I took Bea out of the car seat, her face scrunched and wet from tears, and walked home for the last three blocks with her cradled in my arms. When we got to our apartment, we sat underneath our window by the tree until Bea calmed. I pointed at Beatrice as she was flying back to the hollow with food in her beak. I told Bea that no one will ever hurt her. Then I went numb.

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I have never feared the virus. Until now.

I have stopped answering Rachel's calls. I can't handle another opinion. Jeremy has left me alone for the last few days. We have a crib in the bedroom for when we sleep at night, and one in her room for naps when Jeremy is working at the desk in the bedroom. Jeremy has only approached me to take Bea so I can rest. I push him away and curl up on the floor next to Bea's crib in her room. He tells me to let him in. I sit in silence.

My parents are coming in two days. I wish they weren't coming. I can't handle the expectation and pressure for them to hold Bea. I don't have the emotional bandwidth right now. Everything seems to make me cry–when I drop a soother, when Bea fusses, when the laundry piles up, when Beatrice's owlets grow more feathers, when Bea laughs, when the remote is too far away, when we run out of apples, when we have apples that taste really, really good, when the owlets let out their first delicate chirp, when I can't sleep, when I sleep too long and feel guilty, when my incision stings, when the elastic in my sweat pants break, when the wind causes Beatrice to huddle closer to her young, when toothpaste drips down my shirt, when I think of how much I love Bea, when I think of her getting hurt, or sick, or wronged.

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All I can think of is the virus. My parents have been here for a few days and my mother keeps voicing her disappointment in being denied the chance to hold Bea. I keep firmly stating my reasons. Mom then tried to get closer and told me that I should lie down. I told her that I am the mother and if she can't accept that, then they have to leave. I then cried on the rocking chair, watching Beatrice's owlets stretch out their wings as if testing how far they can spread.

After a few hours, Jeremy came into the room to tell me that they ordered pizza. I wasn't hungry.

Jeremy whispered, again, the idea of antidepressants. He said he misses me. I wanted to scream. But he held me as I sobbed, stroking my hair like I do Bea's, and told me that I am not failing if I ask for help. Then he lifted Bea from her crib and told me that he loves her like I do, and won't put her in a situation where he thinks she would be in danger.

He said, "your parents came a long way, and may not be able to afford to fly again for another six months. They took a Covid test when they landed and they were both negative. You need to trust that they want what is best for Bea too, and share this joy with us."

I nodded as I looked out the window, feeling a wave of calm when I locked eyes with Beatrice. She cooed and tilted her head to the side, comforting me as my red eyes stung.

Jeremy gave Bea to me. I breathed her in and enveloped her body.

Shortly after, Jeremy led my parents into the room. Mom and dad came in with soft eyes and a whispering tone.

"How are you doing, sweetheart?"

I swallowed then held out Bea. "I want you to hold her. She is pretty wonderful."

My parents looked at each other with grace and thanked me for trusting them. My mom slowly stepped towards me, my doubt reeling. I let mom put her arms under Bea's back, her delicate head in the crutch of her arm.

And as my mother wrapped her arms around our precious Bea, I sat down in the rocking chair, shivering with nerves and trying to breathe deeper. Bea smiled at mom, giving me permission to look away and trust. I looked out the window to see the two little owlets flying away from the nest. Beatrice, still and hopeful, watched them go with pride. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I whispered, "be safe, little ones."