Thoughts No Mother Should Have

(And Definitely Not Say Out Loud)

By Jennifer Dorothy

Chapter One

Someone having these thoughts should NOT be left alone with her infant. That’s what’s going through my mind while leaning against the windowsill in my bedroom, kissing the top of my newborn baby’s warm velvety head. Nothing makes sense. The light still glows above the sink in the bathroom where just a few moments ago, everything felt warm and cozy. The sun warms my back as I hold her against my chest wrapped in a towel. The palm of my hand smooths out the wrinkles in the fabric along her tiny back. The distance from the nape of her neck to the base of her bottom is only the length of my hand. Her spine is so small, so delicate, and fragile that I get lost wandering around in the vastness of what it means to be her mom. It’s like being on a narrow trail overlooking a mountain range called What The Hell is Wrong With Me?

I want to escape. I want to run away from myself and the deep shame of what was going through my mind. The warm sun on my back tricks me into thinking we could get out of our apartment and go for a walk, but on this crystal clear November afternoon, it’s freezing out there. It could be a short walk. I’m bargaining now. Anything to get away from experiencing another moment like what just happened after her bath.

I carefully lie my baby girl on the bed, remove the towel, and replace it with a hand-knit blanket. Working with quick precision so as not to disturb her groggy state or dislodge any more of my disturbing thoughts, I unwrap my sweet sweet daughter and swaddle her up into a hand-stitched hug. When I was knitting that blanket, I assumed mothering would come naturally to me. I’ve always loved kids. I babysat my entire life. I worked as a nanny. I taught in preschools. I even worked as a postpartum doula. Now look at me, unable to control what goes through my mind. Thank goodness she’s unfazed by my fussing. I know the window of time between now and her fussing for a feeding is small.

Although we’ve had sunny skies for days, the temperature during this cold snap hasn’t risen above thirty degrees. It always surprises me how frigid Seattle gets when the clouds are gone. When present, they keep the city warm like the blanket that covers my drowsy babe. I imagine schlepping up to the top of Queen Anne hill, with her strapped to my chest, just to see the Puget Sound sparkle like a massive blue sapphire with its emerald green islands nestled into the horizon, just to “put myself in the way of beauty,” as one of my favorite authors, Cheryl Strayed says. Maybe that will help shift my feelings of fear and terror. All Seattleites know a sunny day in late autumn is a fleeting gift. It’s tempting to get even a short burst of sunshine and Vitamin D before the dark days ahead when we literally won’t see the sun for months. I think about the scene from the top of the hill in the upcoming months—gray water, like waste from a bathtub.

That’s right. The bath. After I was done washing her, she was grunting her baby grunts on the changing table as I carefully dried the crevices of silky skin in between her toes, like little pearls. I copied every utterance, hoping to encourage the continued exploration of her adorable baby voice. “How’s my little Jellybean? Are you cold?” I asked.

“Guh,” she responded as she delicately opened her tiny tight fist.

“Guh!” I replied back. “Was that a fun bathy?”

“Ag,” she cooed.  

“Mama’s gonna warm you up and snuggle you in the ducky towel after a massage,” I said. Using the instructional sign from the infant massage book, I asked for her permission by holding my hands in the shape of an open book toward her and asked, “Massage?” As I mothered my daughter, I was learning about consent and the concept that our bodies and our skin are our first boundaries, something to be respected. With a quick reflexive kick of her leg, her foot flicked on the light switch to the heat lamp above. I took that as an excited “Yes.”

We both looked surprised as an orange glow shone upon her like a halo. Lying naked on the soft pad, the sweetness of everything about her was so apparent, so open, and so perfect. Her deep brown eyes locked with mine in a gaze of pure innocence and trust. I squeezed buttermilk lotion into the palm of my hand and began to rub it into her relaxed legs, belly, and arms. I thought about how lucky I was to have a thriving baby. My body moved with the grace and confidence of being what I’d always wanted to be, a mom. But my mind was gradually deceiving me. 

As I focused on her raw femaleness and pristine private parts, my thoughts changed instantly. Her vulnerability socked me in the stomach like a brick. What began as total admiration of her genitals— “Wow, look, it’s such a cute little vulva”—soon transformed into a disgusting beast of images and “what if…” scenes. Terror filled me and I wanted to vomit. I knew what was coming. Ever since my husband had returned to work and I was alone with the baby, awful thoughts bubbled up each time I changed her diaper.

The walls of our small windowless bathroom closed in on me as the revolting thoughts began to rise. My mind went to places it never should about the bad things that can happen to vaginas; the vaginas of babies and young girls, of women and my own. But especially the vaginas of girls who are non-white. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was facing the reality of what it means to be a white woman raising a brown-skinned daughter within the cruelties of racism and the trauma of a patriarchal society. I wasn’t ready to be stuck to the walls of the spinning carnival ride, the Gravitron, with my face grimacing and contorting. Unstoppable images of child abuse, molestation, and every awful rape scene from movies past, flashing by like strobe lights inside my head. 

Just like every other time, I tried to shake them off and change the channel but I couldn’t rid myself of the appalling thoughts. In the foreground lay my daughter’s supple body, and all I could see was violence. I was seeing her through the eyes of a predator and I couldn’t stop the loop of abhorrent acts reeling through my mind. The amount of shame and guilt I felt for having the thoughts and not being able to stop them would plague me for years. If only I could have dumped them down the drain with the bathwater. Grabbing the towel to cover her up, I wrapped my precious baby in my arms and rushed to get out of there. Could I be going crazy? 

Looking out the bedroom window, I was ready to run. My heart raced as adrenaline pumped through my sore muscles, primed to save my baby from myself. I was totally perplexed. What’s going on with me? What’s happening? Why am I obsessing about the ways my daughter could be hurt and abused? A familiar ache began to throb in my own swollen parts. I must have been standing for too long. I’d often wondered if my body would ever be the same again after giving birth, but now I wondered about my mind.

I needed to escape this feeling of being totally fucked up and flawed. A family of squirrels practiced a series of acrobatic antics in the branches of the old plum tree outside the window. I watched with envy as they swung, leaped, and rebounded in a playful game of Catch-Me-if-You-Can. Golden autumn light shone through the dappled canopy of maroon leaves making them look like jewelry. I envied the mama squirrel. I stared at her lightheartedness as she scampered about with the finches and the sparrows flitting back and forth eating black oil sunflower seeds from the feeder.

I felt heavy as I swiped a pile of laundry off the bed and sat with a slump. Like the clothes on the floor, I was a pile. A pile of emotions. I wanted to settle into the comforting warmth of the sun, the humid post-bath air, the weight of her tiny body pressed up against my chest, and all the love my swollen new-mom heart had to give. But part of me believed this must be a sign of something else, something much worse.

I stared at the squirrels as they ran through the bronze-colored leaves on the cherry tree across the street and suppressed the urge to call my husband at work and say, "I’m so sorry, honey, but I’ve discovered the truth. I’ve either been horribly sexually abused or I’m a child molester or both."