Auburn Street
I brought my first baby home to the first house I ever owned. The nursery had blue gingham curtains hand sewn by my mom. The walls were a soft yellow and there were little sheep and rabbits strewn about. It was a large room with windows on 3 walls and the perfect crib stood ready for my precious bundle. Of course, I couldn’t stand the thought of putting the baby in a crib all alone, so the room was more of a glorified closet. A bassinet had been ordered by my grandmother in Maine, and on the first night home with our new baby, it had not yet arrived. Not sure what to do, I held the infant uncertainly to my chest and looked to my husband for ideas. He grabbed a plastic drawer from a storage shelf, and after adding a pad to the bottom, perched it on a chair next to my side of the bed. It was a fruitless effort after all, because little Wren had no intention of sleeping in the makeshift nest. Rocking desperately back and forth, I tried to soothe my tiny bird, and a feeling of bewilderment took over me. They really just sent us home from the hospital with fewer instructions than you get for a new kitchen appliance. “You look like a natural,” my husband remarked as he rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.
It was just the two of us after that.
When we bought the house, I had grand plans of making it shine like it must have when it was new in 1920. It was a gorgeous old farmhouse; white with evergreen shutters and a perfectly nostalgic screened front porch. I bought Murphy’s Oil Soap and many gallons of paint, but beyond that, we didn’t do much to the place. Between work and pregnancy followed by a new infant, I had little energy for home projects and my husband was in school full time. He had an internship at a local hospital, and was constantly referencing a Palm Pilot that had all of the answers one could seek regarding pharmaceutical medicine. He stressed the life and death nature of his role and how important it was that he was well-rested. Baby and I were relegated to a futon downstairs to avoid disturbing him with nighttime feedings. What I had imagined as a perfect family home quickly became a drafty, lonely old place. A darkness started to take hold of my insides.
The house had a narrow, steep wooden staircase. The nursery was upstairs, where all the supplies and the changing table were. This meant many trips up and down with baby as we traveled to and from our little futon room on the main floor. I remember standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. At times I would be paralyzed by fear. I just knew I would drop the baby down the stairs. Tragedy felt inevitable. Sometimes I sat at the top until I gathered the courage to walk down. Other times there were tears. Every time, I held my breath and descended slowly, step by painstaking step. It was the perfect analogy for life at that time. I loved my child with my whole being, but anxiety had my brain in a vice. Every day was a series of steps I had to take, but I was terrified all the time. I couldn’t stop picturing the worst, but I couldn’t tell anyone. I was convinced that if anyone knew how I felt, or what I thought about, they would take my baby away from me. I was sleep-deprived and lonely. I’m sure it can’t be true, but I don’t remember laughing or having fun with my husband after we had the baby. Our relationship had hit a rocky patch just before I found out I was pregnant. I think that if I hadn’t been pregnant, it would have ended. Instead, I was determined to stick it out. I had made vows to this person. I had a family now and a child that deserved the two-parent household I hadn’t had. Daily life was a slog. My body felt foreign and the house felt like a cold reminder of the beautiful family life I thought I would have.
Of course, there were some happy times on Auburn Street. The ones I can remember came after I grew more confident in motherhood, and began to find pieces of myself again. I remember singing and dancing in the kitchen, Wren strapped to my chest as I put dishes away. I would look down to a little smiling, cooing face and feel pure, perfect joy. I remember cutting blooms from a peppermint-striped camellia, and our wedding dishes displayed proudly in the built-in china cabinet. I began to feel like a real adult in that house.
Six months after Wren was born, we moved from Salem to McMinnville for my husband’s new job as a hospital pharmacist. We sold the farmhouse that held a thousand hopes and dreams that would never see the light. I drove by it a few years ago, and it had fallen into disrepair. Sheets in the windows, overgrown lawn, peeling paint. It makes me sad to think of it still- all it could have been and deserved to be.
