She Was Planned For on Paper
This essay is the third in a series, Carefully Come Undone, in which Brittany Miles explores the many aspects of raising a child with schizophrenia.
She was planned for on paper, rather than in the usual way.
At 39, newly married, I had the desire for a baby; it pervaded my thoughts. My heart said, “You’re ready.” Biology told me it was now or never. My brand-spanking-new husband, Corey, agreed with the plan.
Months of connubial bliss flew by. From childhood on, I knew motherhood was for me. I may have had doubts along the way, but being a mama was solidly in my future.
Husband.
Baby.
Maybe I could have it all.
After a few months, it became clear that the natural way wouldn’t happen. Some women felt awful about infertility. Not me. It didn’t make me a failure as a woman, nor did it define my womanhood. Getting pregnant wasn’t the only thing that mattered. There were many ways to bring children into my life. It was more important to be a parent than to be pregnant.
We explored adoption, attending an agency’s information session to gauge fit. It was a lot of heavy information, but it would lead to a real baby to call your own. I left believing we were going in the right direction. There was a lot to think about; we committed to discussing it.
During my fortieth birthday trip to Kauai, we made the decision: Adoption was how we’d build our family. I was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a mama.
We had background checks, submitted fingerprints to the FBI, attended many parenting classes, and finally welcomed a social worker into our home for the final portion of our “home study.” We passed with flying colors.
Now we waited for a suitable match with a birth mother. This took time, with one failed match with a baby boy. That loss dashed our hope, but we had faith our baby was out there. While we were feeling particularly despondent, our perfect match showed up in Georgia.
We had a beautiful profile that showed our lives in pictures. What sold her were pictures of our trip to Hawaii; she wanted her baby to travel. She also chose Corey and me because we were a Black family. It was critically important for her child to be raised by a Black family, as she believed that this would provide a strong cultural identity and connection to their heritage.
One morning Corey called me. He rarely called during my workday.
“Did you check your Gmail, Britt?” he said.
“No, why?”
“Your baby is here.”
Confused, I said, “Whose baby?”
“Yours. She’s here.”
I got clued into what he was telling me. My perfect angel was here. Layla. I confirmed he wasn’t teasing me and that this was real. We had to pack our bags and get to Georgia. ASAP.
We packed our bags with diapers and dreams. The plane couldn’t get across the country fast enough. Only 24 hours stood between us and meeting Layla.
Sleep eluded me. It felt like Christmas morning, but better. Butterflies fluttered in my flat belly.
My whole life and marriage prepared me for the moment. I was about to be a mother.
*
Corey took the wheel of our rental car, and I did my best to navigate to the caring home. Soon-to-be-adopted infants were placed in caring homes until the new parents arrived. We found the suburban home where she was staying. A woman opened the door and placed a small pink blanket in my arms. Oh, my goodness. We were invited in, and I sat with Layla on my lap. She had all her fingers and toes (which I already knew). I smelled her (heaven). I sang a lullaby as she gently slept in my swaying arms. Corey got a turn holding his daughter. He cooed and told her all about us. The beginnings of the father-daughter dance. My family was complete.
We signed some papers and left with our daughter. Daughter.
Once we returned home, we cobbled together a routine. Corey took the night shift, and I took the rest. Days blended into nights and weeks into months. Mother wasn’t just my role; it became my sole identity. I was so enraptured with Layla; I missed the entirety of the 2008 financial crisis. Turning on CNN blew my mind. I was lost in my mothering, and the outside world didn’t matter because I had my baby girl.
*
There’s a photo of a slimmer me, dressed in a green graphic tee, frayed button-fly jeans, and a small yellow bundle sleeping on my chest. The image is one of our first photos as mother and daughter.
I didn’t birth Layla, but I planned to earth her. I was Layla’s mama, and nothing and nobody could change it.
But while I was becoming a better mother, it became obvious that Layla’s presence was taking a toll on me and Corey. Our couplehood suffered as we slept in shifts. Days were long with an infant, and I tried to sleep when she did. I rarely could.
Arguments ensued about who was doing more. Shouting matches where I said things I shouldn’t have.
Recriminations and apologies. I was jealous of him being at work. I loved Layla, but I missed my job and work friends.
I morphed from Corey’s Wife into Super Mama. When babies are very young, nature has us cater to their every need. They cling to us for survival. I kept telling Corey he was doing it wrong. He didn’t make enough bottles, and her bathwater was too hot. I was critical of everything he did.
He didn’t say anything. That was the problem.
We tried to find a television series to watch like we used to. We were exhausted, and nothing could hold our interest. Same with movies for me. Corey enjoyed them, and I stayed upstairs with Layla while he watched. I preferred Layla and me. Not the three of us. Just us two.
I was so attuned to Layla that I could anticipate when she would need a diaper change or to be burped, but I forgot my husband needed me too. The signs were there, and the missed moments and lost opportunities. The sofa, our love nest, became littered with Layla’s Boppy and blankets. Not a trace of us was left on that couch.
Corey noticed I didn’t show up in the moments of his life. I couldn’t care less about his day or his job worries. As long as he continued to be employed, that satisfied my needs.
When did this shift happen? He used to be larger than life in my world. But Layla supplanted him. As he shrank, so did the relationship.
The tension between child and partner bruised me. In this invisible conflict, I chose my child every time. Layla’s first year was a rocky one for us. We couldn’t get in sync as partners or lovers.
By Layla’s first birthday, Corey courageously raised a flag. It was time to end things peacefully. Our sniping had gotten bitter. Each of us held on to how right we were about petty arguments. We lost the magic that brought us together.
My identity shifted again; I was no longer a wife but now a single mother. Single. Something I thought I’d never be. Again.
We parted as we began, as friends. We knew our young child needed stability. Corey stayed present. He was an attentive father, always wanting to know the details of her life. Layla barely noticed the change; her life stayed blissfully the same.
With this life shift, I faced a conundrum: For the first time as an adult, I didn’t have a plan. The perfect plans on paper were erased. What I once used to build my family vanished. Brittany from two years ago couldn’t have anticipated the vast unknown stretching before her.
As a child I learned how to color within the lines, and I stayed there. Going outside the prescribed limits was forbidden. Pushing hard against the unknown, I tried to get my life back inside. But I learned that once outside the lines, you’re on your own. For some that’s freedom. For me it was fear.
About the Author
Brittany Miles writes fiction and essays exploring family, motherhood, mental health, and identity through lyrical, emotionally resonant storytelling. Her work appears in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times, and is forthcoming in Open Secrets Magazine, Tir Literary Magazine, and Minding Our Business: A Blacklandia Anthology on Mental Health and Healing.
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