Every Wednesday, after my husband left for work, Everest and I headed out for a movie date.
“Wild” was a favorite, as were “If I Stay” and “The Hundred-Foot Journey,” because those were quiet, character-driven stories.
Everest didn’t much care what was on the screen: He was only 3 months old when we started going to the weekly parent movie mornings at our local theater. These were screenings of new releases that catered to parents with babies – the lights in the theater were turned up, the sound was lowered, and a changing table was situated in the aisle, right next to the designated stroller parking. A ticket was even cheaper than for a matinee.
Movies are an easy way for anyone to ditch reality for 120 or so minutes, but for me, they were a lifeline.
Pregnancy left me with a body that felt as foreign as a French film. I had an angry C-section incision that was stubborn to heal, a stone of anxiety clanging around in my chest, and hips packed with extra weight like a fanny pack I couldn’t remove. Then postpartum depression settled in and nearly shattered me.
I was sleep deprived and lonely. My husband and I live in the desert in California, far from our Midwestern families, and most of our friends are childless and busy. Some days the temperature swelled to 115 degrees, and I flattened the carpet as I paced the living room with my colicky baby.
The movie theater, however, was cool and dark. I nursed my son in my arms and rocked him in the gently reclining plush seat. He was calm there, and so was I. The film was almost an afterthought.
[For more of this story, written by Maggie Downs, go to http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12...tntemail0=y&_r=1]
Comments (0)