Balmy day. Sweltering stroller walk downtown for a cold drink this afternoon. I haven’t felt it this hot, here, since I was two months secretly pregnant with Baby and we visited our current city during a heat wave. The nausea was coming on, and, remembering my last pregnancy, I smoked weed every morning to calm the morning sickness that might give away my condition. (Tutting? Look up “cannabis, anti-emetic properties”, then “hyperemesis gravidarum”, and call me in the morning.)
Anti-Husband was calm even when I said, “Before we go and have breakfast with your grandmother, I have to smoke this bowl or I will throw up forever.” He kept his sweet cool, despite the skunky trigger that is the scent of weed for him. I finally lost it in a drive-through coffee line on the way out of town (I jumped out of the car to puke behind a Dutch Bros. sign). Then back to the city where I’d spend the bulk of my pregnancy.
Now my angel is three beautiful months old and we are living here. Our new house has unfolded beautiful around us. And I’m more in love with my Anti-Husband than ever, as he pushes himself beyond his limits to bring bread and water to his family. He astonishes me even as I irritate and rage under the restrictions of his schedule. We are mildly shocked into gratitude for each other. It is not that we keep each other happy but that we save each other, in some way. Day by day I catholicize, I become more religious, I believe a little more.
I’m still smoking weed because I’d rather produce breastmilk laden with cannabinoids than SSRIs, if I have the choice, and because I have been able, with it, to manage my anorexia in the postpartum period. (Hearing “you don’t even look like you had a baby! You dropped so much weight!” is not always heartening; thank you, but no.) It’s another post for another day, but the yerba buena has an effect on my parenting, too, a real one; when my anxiety, ADD and sensory issues are calmed with its smoke, I can engage with my kids with presence and without pain. It’s worth it to me.