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First Steps

Portrait of mother and baby legs. First steps.

By Emily Page Lockamy I’m eating a turkey sandwich in between seeing clients when I hear my email inbox ping. It’s my son’s daycare; they’ve emailed a video. I lower the volume on the computer and slide my desk chair in. I see my 13-month-old grinning at his daycare teacher, Amy, with the dyed hair and multiple piercings. Amy is gentle and sweet, and my son loves her for loving him. She is crouching across from my boy coaxing him to walk toward her. In her high-pitched voice, she says, “Go buddy!” And with my mouth agape, I watch as he goes. He takes three jerky steps and falls into Amy’s arms. “Yay! Yayy! Yayyy!” she squeals. Then the video is over. I watch it ten more times, dizzy with joy and pride. I call my coworker over to watch it. She smiles, but her eyes are solemn. “I know it’s hard,” she acknowledges, not to be there for that.

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What I Didn’t Tell Them

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By Jessie Scanlon The Hot Wheels and Lego bricks strewn across our family room floor would usually have annoyed me. But that early spring evening the toys seemed to anchor me in the normal. I concentrated on my breathing and tried, mentally, to disconnect my facial muscles from my emotions. My daughter and son sat beside me on the sofa. Could my husband have been kneeling on the floor? Or standing? “I have to have an operation,” I told my children with a smile that I hoped showed confidence. “It’s one that Grandma had 12 years ago, and that Aunt Sarah will have soon. I’ll be in the hospital for a week, and after I come home I won’t be able to drive you to school or pick you up or let you sit on my lap for a while.” What I didn’t tell them was that I had breast cancer. In the weeks since I’d been diagnosed with an

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From The Archive

Abuelita

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By Krista Bremer Several years ago I spent a summer working in a crowded office in Delhi, India. Outside of the city’s rich enclaves, the electric system was overtaxed and unpredictable, and intermittently throughout the day our building would go dark. As our air-conditioning unit came grinding to a halt, my Indian co-workers would stop whatever they were doing and sink to the floor, surrendering to the awesome heat that rapidly engulfed the office. When power was restored—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours later—they’d slowly rise to their feet, rubbing their eyes. Years later, recovering at home from my second child’s birth in the middle of a sultry North Carolina summer, I was reminded of that summer in India: The hot, thick days blurred together, and my daily activities were constantly interrupted by my son’s insatiable hunger. When he needed to nurse, I collapsed into the nearest comfortable place, surrendering to his demands. Minutes or hours later, I peeled him off me

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Baby Weight

Baby Weight

By Cheryl Strayed from the archives: fall 2008 As a child and teenager, I remember being mildly disturbed by the animal quality that overcame my mother while in the presence of babies. It was a quality she cloaked in a polite, seemingly offhand request—may I hold the baby?—and a nonchalant tone of voice, but I knew her intentions were indisputably vulturine at their core. She wanted that baby in her hands and she wanted it now. “Oh,” my mother would coo once she had the borrowed baby in her possession. “Look at this,” she’d moan to me, standing desolately witness to her mysterious rapture. “There’s nothing on this earth like the smell of a baby once you’ve had one of your own,” she would explain each time. “Nothing like the weight of a baby in your arms.” Over the years, I observed this same response in other women, all of them mothers whose own children are no longer babies. Inevitably—both

By Cheryl Strayed
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