Happily Ever After

article by Meredith McKinnie

When I was pregnant, my mother gave me my baby book, one of those “fill in the sentence” prompters that chronicled my childhood. Mom’s attention to detail was astonishing. She kept track of every inch, ounce, dietary preference, and scraped knee, not to mention countless art projects, report cards, and honorable mention ribbons. And my mom’s humor and honesty came out, which I appreciate. But it all read glossy to me as an adult, more of a pretty picture than the reality I know to be true now. I want something different for my daughter. And so, I’ve decided to tell her the truth, the honest, sometimes ugly truth, in the form of letters.

My friend Lea knows me. She got me this modern baby book during my first pregnancy, very boho chic. The vintage cover is decorated with classy arrows, and she made sure it contained pages and more blank pages for her friend, the writer. For those first six weeks of maternity leave, I didn’t know what to do with the pages. I kept glancing at the book day after day, unsure of what to say. The pages felt oppressive, and one day, it dawned on me. Talk to her. She doesn’t understand you right now, but one day she will. And tell her the truth. Don’t set her up to feel like a failure.

The first entry is lovey dovey. “Dad and I are so in love with you without even knowing you yet,” the normal stuff. At five months, when her personality starts to emerge and she responds to my commands, like we understand each other, I wonder if I could love her more than that moment. We read to her, nightly, and some of the books are fairy tales. They’ve evolved; some are about courageous women throughout history, and that makes me happy. But the traditional ones, the ones my mom read to me, that I want to share for connection, they end with, “happily ever after.” And I don’t believe in that. It’s a false promise, a half-truth, and I don’t want to lie to my little girls. I refuse to set up unrealistic expectations that will ensure disappointment and self doubt.

On Valentine’s Day, her first one, three days after her 6-month birthday, a personal fairytale crumbled. I cook most nights because I love to, and I get home hours before my husband, but he told me he was cooking for Valentine’s Day. I come home from the gym after 6 PM, having not heard from him, which is odd, thinking he’s probably home planning something special. When I pull into a dark house and the realization sets in that he’s not home, and nothing special is being prepared, and I’ve imagined this scenario in my head. I feel silly, and even more silly for caving to disappointment. My daughter is screaming in the back seat because she hates the dark, and I can’t get over the fact that he’s not here, that the Valentine’s Day I imagined in my head is not happening.

I didn’t know how to channel my anger, and then I saw the book. This was one of those moments where I could explode in the privacy of our own walls, snap a fake picture for social media and pretend her Valentine’s Day was the thing of social media dreams. But I didn’t. Instead, I wrote in her book. I told her how her mom felt that day, I told her the hopes I had for the evening, the disappointment, and the rage I felt I deserved for not getting the scenario I created in my head. I told her the truth. I told her how her mom was flawed and how her dad’s job didn’t respect her sleep schedule or the national holiday. I want her to know that while I love her father, while I’m thankful he’s my partner, while I know I chose the right parent for my daughter, “happily ever after” is not accurate. “Hard ever after,” is the truth, and her mama is woman enough to say so. My daughter won’t go blindly into a relationship expecting the moon; she will know she will have to reach for it every day, and find the person willing to reach with her.