Forcing a move for motherhood

I folded into my husbands life, is he willing to fold into mine?

Art by Mia Ohki

When my mother was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in the summer of 2020, I began making frequent trips to my hometown in Southern California. I wanted to offer my dad reprieve from constant caretaking, but even more, I felt compelled to cheer her up. One morning in August, as I put on her socks and tie her shoes, she smiles with sad eyes and tells me I’m ready to be a mom.

“Have a baby,” she says. I shrug off the suggestion.

“How can I take care of a baby and take care of you?”

She insists, “The baby will heal me.” It’s not logical but I resonate with her reason. Ever since I got married, she’s been asking me when I’m going to get pregnant. Now, I note my own lack of disgust in wiping her and changing her Depends. Caring for a baby in diapers doesn't seem any different.

During my twenties, I was annoyed by her baby nagging. I wanted to focus on becoming the woman I wanted to be before becoming a mother. But now in my mid-thirties, as I come to terms with the fact my mother is dying, I want to witness my future baby in her arms. A photo hangs in the hallway to my parent’s bedroom. In it my mom holds me as a baby and my grandmother stands by her side. Intergenerational love is captured in one frame. I see the happiness in my grandmother’s eyes. If I were a good daughter, I would produce a baby right away.

The thing is, having a baby isn’t my decision alone. There’s my husband, Gareth, to consider. And right now, he’s just not that into it.

That’s a problem. As I simultaneously approach the age when my pregnancy would be considered geriatric and watch my mother's health rapidly decline, I know time is running out.

#307

Six years ago, I moved from Los Angeles to San Francisco to be with Gareth. Even though I had built a career in the Hollywood entertainment industry, I didn't hesitate to leave it for a moment. Producing life with Gareth was more thrilling than any screenplay I’d ever come across. We agreed we wanted to have children together. At thirty, it seemed reasonable to postpone this plan and enjoy life as newlyweds.

Gareth’s roots in San Francisco run deep. A true native; he’s lived in the same zip code all his life. His parents still live in the home he grew up in. For every city charm I discover, Gareth shares a connecting memory from his childhood. His subtle sense of self-regard makes it clear he belongs to San Francisco, and San Francisco belongs to him.

When I moved to San Francisco, I know it broke my mother’s heart.

“I never left my mother,” she’s told me countless times. And it’s true. For as long as my grandmother was alive, they lived within fifteen miles of each other.

The neurologists classify my mother as having major cognitive decline. Parkinson’s is nerve cell damage in the brain, causing dopamine levels to drop. The diagnosis explained her speech impairment and depression. The disease didn't hit her like a train all at once; it developed gradually over the years, until one day I realized I hadn’t seen my mom, spunky and bright eyed as I remember her growing up, in years.

Now I tell Gareth, “It’s time to start trying.” His response is to make a fancy spreadsheet forecasting the annual costs of having a child. Apparently we’re not quite ready, financially.

Gareth’s measured pragmatism is a quality I’ve always found attractive. I attribute his success as a global marketing executive to this sensibility. But as we tiptoe towards never feeling ready for children, I want to throw his reason out the window. Isn’t love the most important element for creating a family? Despite saying he wants to be a dad, I observe how Gareth avoids playing with my toddler niece and infant nephew. He picks them up like he’s holding a dirty sock, arms extended away from his body.

In many partnerships, people are secretive with their true feelings, resistant to being vulnerable. Gareth and I have never been that way. After years of practicing radical honesty with each other, I rarely have to ask him what he’s feeling. He’s not ready for kids.

As months go by, I am struck by the number of women who counsel me to trick Gareth into it, sharing how their “accident” child was no surprise for them, just for their partners. It seems implausible to get pregnant without Gareth knowing. We track my cycle together. But more importantly, it feels wildly out of integrity. Deceiving Gareth into taking an irreversible step in life is not my ideal setup for conscious parenting.

Months of delayed conception plans become years. The distress I feel witnessing my mother’s illness becomes frustration with Gareth. Last summer, on an emergency trip to see my mother, who has been hospitalized with low blood pressure, I call Gareth and tell him, “It's time for me to move home. I need to live closer.” At first, Gareth punts the relocation request, encouraging me to continue to take as many trips as I need.

But these trips have been emotionally and physically exhausting. Years of plane tickets and air travel delays has felt like sprinting a marathon.

I take my mom home from the hospital, fly back to San Francisco, and pick a fight with Gareth.

“We are moving to Southern California,” I declare. “If we don't do this together, what are we even doing together?” I folded into Gareth's life. Is he willing to fold into mine? If he doesn’t agree to move, I’ll miss out on precious time with my mom.

“Okay, we’ll move.” Gareth hugs me.

I’m surprised by his quick acquiescence and open-arm embrace. I feel belligerent for trying to start a war with my beloved and regret waving a red flag of separation intent, but I guess that's what I needed to do to tell him how serious this is for me. We agree to spend six weeks living with my parents over the holidays while we find our own permanent place in Southern California. I reason that forcing my husband into leaving San Francisco is a lesser evil than forcing him into having a baby with me.

Soon, I’m unpacking my wardrobe and storing my suitcase in my parents’ garage. I expect to feel a sense of relief, but I don’t. Why does my homecoming feel so muddled?

Despite his pledged support, Gareth’s sadness in leaving San Francisco is palpable. He buries himself in his work and keeps to himself. I figure he just doesn’t know how to care for my mom, or me. The first sign I might be wrong is when my mother loses her balance and nearly slips down the wooden staircase. A box of Bombas grip socks arrives at our doorstep the next day. Gareth ordered them. My mother now asks for them every day. She’s thrilled we are home.

So thrilled, in fact, that I find myself questioning my conviction that she is dying. Late one afternoon, after she’s been napping nearly all day, I wake her and play her favorite rock song, “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones. She wants to dance! Gareth twirls her in the kitchen as I cook dinner. This unexpected spark gives me hope. Maybe this isn’t the last Christmas we’ll have together? Perhaps this slowed-down, shrunken version of her is just a new normal and there are years ahead where she’ll hold our future child.

But I can’t hold onto that hope for long. I should just have a baby now. It’s what my mother wants. It would make her happy; maybe even, as she believes, heal her.

Living from “shoulds” is not a fun place to be. I feel this “should” as a lump in my stomach, a tightness in my chest, a stifling in my voice.

I probe my motives. Did we really need to move? Was this just a subconscious effort to make sure, despite the uncertain baby timeline, Gareth is committed to what is important to me? I share these thoughts with him: “Honey, I think we made a mistake. Maybe Mom is okay?” He wipes a tear from my eye with the pad of his thumb and tells me it’s okay to grieve my mother.

And just like that, Gareth cuts through the noise in my head and mirrors what I’m really feeling: grief.

#802 “Swimming out of the Big Sad”

“You’re a good daughter. You’re doing everything you can, and it is enough,” he says. I’m relieved. I feel seen by my husband in a way I’ve never felt seen before. My burden of “should” lifts. A new depth of our love emerges and inspires a possibility of embracing motherhood, not out of obligation, but generosity. Deep down I want to be a mom to offer unconditional love.

Over the next few weeks I watch Gareth gingerly care for my mother, picking her up and gently laying her down on the sofa, tucking her in with a blanket, and speaking slowly and intentionally like you would with a child. I see my mother relax in his care. I am struck by the tender compassion that radiates from him.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still planning to have a child. I want to be a mother and Gareth wants to be a father. Away from the angst of the timing of my mother’s illness, I feel it clearly in him and in me. But we’re healthy and we have time.

Now, as I pass the photo in my parents’ hallway, I notice how young my grandmother looks. She had her first baby at nineteen and was only fifty when her first grandchild was born. My mother and grandmother were much closer in age than my mother and me. My mom may not be alive to share in the life of my child, and that is certainly another loss I will grieve.

But as sad as that loss feels, I’m letting go of having a child on my mother’s timeline, and choosing to do it on my own. 

#481 “Ripple Effect”

---

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this personal essay, I would so appreciate if you would share it. Reach out anytime by just hitting reply or leaving a comment, I love hearing from you.

Thank you for supporting me and my work.

All my care,

Christina