JulietEastland

Night and Day

Several months ago, I gave birth to my first child, a baby girl. At the same time, a strange
thing happened: I began dreaming of Paris. Not, helas, the City of Light. Rather, I was
spending my nights with Paris Hilton. Paris and I lolling on a yacht; Paris and I glittering in
gowns; Paris and I cantering on thoroughbreds, our long, bleached hair fluttering like the
silk from genetically-modified corn.

I have short, dark hair, and I don’t even like horses. What is this meshugas? How is it that
now, at the rawest, most deeply emotional time of my life, I am spending my evenings with a
shiksa sexpot? My feelings are not amorous – I prefer brunettes – and I’m not exactly
envious, although I do covet her body mass index and her bank balance. I do not seek to
emulate her contributions to society (her contributions to “Society” are another story). As
far as I can tell, Paris espouses no cause larger than Paris.

And that is the point: she embodies, to the nth degree, gleeful, shameless self-absorption.
She is id incarnate, a sort of ur-child jetting between fetes and fiancés. And as she appears
in my dreams, dancing me through the high life, I too get to play at being a glamorous,
gallivanting kid.

This escapism makes sense. My current life, after all, is anything but high. I forego
showers; I forget to eat; I have left home sporting mismatched shoes and a fuzzy pacifier-
holder clipped to my lapel like a corsage. I worry constantly: will my daughter find
happiness? Will she vote green? And what’s that spot on her face? It’s exhausting,
parenthood. No wonder I need a break.

But this is not the full story. The real transformation is taking place below the surface, as
every cell stretches and shifts to accommodate this new feeling – a visceral, ferocious
love unfurling like a vine, winding its tendrils around my organs and wrapping its roots
around my bones. This is not the placid adoration of Mother for Child; there is nothing
ethereal or holy about my feelings for my baby. My passion is so vehement that my stomach
tightens when she holds my gaze and I want to enfold her in my arms and absorb her back
into my body. When she falls asleep, her fingers curled in mine like tiny sea creatures, her
trust moves me to tears. I think about my role as protector, and for the first time, I am
certain I could kill another human being. It’s an unsettling feeling.

I am her guide, and what a privilege it is to be present at her first encounters with the
universe. Today, I bring her to the florist and watch as she stares, taking in the saffron
gerberas and the velvety purple of the tulips. She is seeing these colors for the first time,
and she is mesmerized. Her concentration is contagious, and I feel myself grow still,
breathing with her. Watching her pulse beat under her scalp, I imagine her neurons
popping and firing. I think of the carpet of electric-blue ajuga I stumbled on deep in the
woods at summer camp, and the log coated with scarlet fungus that I tripped over on my
post-college hiking trip out west. I am overjoyed beyond reason to think of her similarly
hijacked by moments of jubilant, colorful surprise. At the same time, I know that part of the
thrill of discovery is the joy of possession, of secrecy. After a certain point, the colors that
surprise her will be hers, not ours. They will be added, like a tile, to the mosaic that is her
life – a life separate from mine. Even though she is snuggled against me, the chill of
bereavement spreads through my chest, and for one dark, rageful moment I wish I did not
love her.

Then the door to that unlit space closes and I am back, holding her to me, and I understand
Paris’ presence in my life. This glossy-lipped Barbie is my escape, not from the daily frazzle
of parenthood, but from this unseen, buffeting passion. I frolic with Paris at night, and
awake ready to wrestle anew with the unsettling and exhilarating feelings. For a double
life, it’s not half bad.

Juliet Eastland has written for magazines, websites, and print anthologies.