Dear Craig’s List mom who sold me her used Pack n Play,
Thank you for taking the time to meet me, oh so many months ago. I am sorry that I didn’t understand you then. I am sorry that I didn’t know. I was very hungry and very pregnant, and I needed to have this Pack n Play, and that is all I cared about then. You see, I saw it for the first time in Babies R Us and had these sweet visions of a faceless baby playing inside its safe and translucent mesh walls. I saw him sleeping nestled inside of the cozy fabric enclosure positioned at the foot of our bed and I just knew that my baby had to have one of these amazingly cute and clearly very important pieces of newborn décor. It was one of those items that seemed so very necessary back then, with its convenient bassinet and attachable changing table. Even though it carried a hefty price tag in the store, I had a feeling that I might be able to find a slightly used but very much loved Pack N Play neatly tucked away in another happy family’s garage, so I started my search on Craig’s List and eventually, I found yours.
I was slightly irritated at having to drive thirty minutes north to pick the dang thing up, but I figured it would be totally worth it to save $150. I got there and parked next to the bank, and waited. You drove up in a silver sedan almost twenty minutes later with a young girl sitting in the front seat. At first glance, you looked well put together. You were wearing a beautiful sheer tank top, expensive sunglasses and your hair was flowing and dark. I was enormous and jealous of your skinny physique. I could tell that you were part Japanese by your petite stature and angular features and you appeared to be in your early thirties. You coolly stepped out of the car with your daughter energetically skipping behind. I later learned that she was five years old. You removed your sunglasses to get a better look at me and I could see instantly how tired you were. You sounded distant and fatigued and your eyes were sunken from too many sleepless nights. I looked innocently past these clues and wondered how I was going to get that metal and fabric contraption into the back of my car.
While you and I were lightly discussing how to set up and take down the Pack N Play, your daughter was running around in circles. She dashed through the car stalls, around your car one way and then back. She was singing loudly, making it hard for me to hear what you were saying, and she didn’t seem to notice that I was even there at all. You tiredly asked her to stop running around and to be polite, but she ignored your pleas and continued the song and dance with just as much vigor as before. I remember disdainfully thinking that this child was clearly the spoiled daughter of a well-off family with no sense of discipline. You seemed disengaged and I pondered if you had a nanny take care of your daughter while you went to work.
I realized then that you had probably given up on having more kids. You were relinquishing this item from her baby days with the assumption that you would never use it again. You must have hung onto it for a few years wondering if maybe the opportunity would ever arise, but for one reason or another, you decided to let it go. Your daughter impatiently started to tug on your shirt, begging to go home. You ignored her and continued your conversation with me.
After a few minutes of small talk, you gave up on wrangling your child and began passing me nostalgic looks that were tinted with sadness and maybe even a hint of knowing empathy. At the time, I couldn’t really figure out what was wrong with you. I knew there was something off. You seemed a little too blasé, almost like you were just over it. Maybe you were exhausted with life and your attempts to control your little girl seemed like they were just for show. Maybe you had never really wanted kids. Maybe you were secretly going through a divorce. I couldn’t help but feel a little pain for you, but I just didn’t comprehend the place where it was all coming from. Clearly, what was going on in your life and the decisions that you were making were things that I would never be able to know or understand.
After we finally managed to get what I would soon learn to see as a glorified baby jail into my trunk, I stood by and thanked you for helping me. You tried to tell me that parenthood was a complicated experience and that if I ever needed someone to talk to, I could call you. You said that you didn’t know about my situation and that it may sound crazy, but sometimes, just having someone to talk to can really help, even if they are a complete stranger. You gave me your number (which I never wrote down) and I thanked you for your kindness, but I didn’t think twice about your mild attempts to clue me in on what I was about to experience. I actually thought it was a little weird for you to reach out. You were an enigma to me, a strange and distant mother who seemed lost in her own existence. I never once guessed that I would think about you in the future. That I would remember our brief interchange. You see, I guess I just thought I had everything figured out, but you knew better. You knew.
You knew all of the things that I couldn’t foresee. That I would hardly ever have the chance to use this fabric and mesh covered infant prison. That the second my child was old enough to sit up and play in it, he would probably start screaming bloody murder any time I tried to set him down in it. You had the insight to realize that my baby would most likely not sleep in that handy bassinet, and that my back would break after three nights of trying to change my baby’s diaper in that oh so convenient attachable changing table. You knew about all of the miserable days spent crying. All of the nights spent in secret regret. You knew how hard it was going to be and you tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, listen. I couldn’t interpret the darkness hiding behind your words, the overwhelming fatigue of the constant marital drama and the infinite battle of becoming a parent. I couldn’t recognize these tribulations as part of my future, and I never recognized your attempts to reach out as your own personal cry for help. I'm sorry I judged you and I'm sorry I never called. All I could see was another strange woman full of advice and a vision of a smiling baby in a Pack N Play filled with cutesy toys and joyful memories. Maybe, that’s all I wanted to see.
yousharknotpass
2087
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