Previous installments of Jessica Valenti’s “Eat Me” column can be found here.
I call it Sunday sauce, my grandmother called it “gravy.” The anything-but-plain tomato sauce–the cooking of which dominated the afternoon–is the food I probably associate most with my childhood. My mother would let my sister Vanessa and I dip pieces of bread in it as it thickened, the bread melting under the sauce’s weight. It seemed as if it simmered it for hours, but I’m betting it was no more than one. But the anticipation of the sauce–and, oh my god what kind of pasta would it go on, please let it be ravioli–was everything good about my weekend.
We ate dinner at the table together every night, but Sunday was different. My parents weren’t Catholic anymore – my mom hated the nuns who beat her in school and my father stopped going after a priest asked him during confession, breathing hard, for the details of his masturbation routine. He literally left the church running. But still, Sunday was sacred. No television allowed. Only music: classical in the morning and Buddy Holly in the afternoons because Vanessa and I were inexplicably obsessed with him. We sang along, jumping on the couch, holding hands.
I started cooking Sunday’s sauce after I had my daughter, Layla. I wanted to start our own family traditions and pass on old ones – anything that that would give her the kind of joyous, sensory-laden memories I had. I taught her how to dip a heel of bread in the pot, soaking as much sauce as possible without getting too messy. She rolls out the dough for pasta with me; I crank the machine and she catches the flattened sheets, carefully laying them on the counter.
Passing down family traditions took on more gravity as I slowly accepted I couldn’t have more children. My pregnancy with Layla had nearly killed us both, and the chances of the same thing happening again were too high. Besides, Andrew and knew that what Layla endured–a 2-pound barely-there baby with tubes to breathe, feed, and monitor–could be a best case scenario. Our real nightmare is a baby who does not end up as lucky as our now-vibrant, smart, hilarious 3-year-old. So I made sauce. And baked. And started Friday “pizza parties” where Layla and I made pizzas from scratch–her spooning on the sauce with one hand, stuffing shredded mozzarella into her mouth with the other.
Then I got pregnant. Sometimes plans and being responsible don’t work out the way you thought they would. I always thought women collapsing at bad news seemed a bit overwrought, but there I was on the bathroom floor. I cried because I was terrified–I still get the occasional post-traumatic symptom–but mostly I cried because I want so badly for Layla to be able to dance with someone to Buddy Holly on Sundays.
I did the logical things you’re supposed to do: made appointments with specialists, talked to family and trusted friends. The funny thing about pregnancy is that with any other health risk a doctor has no problem telling you what the best course of action is. But no doctor wants to tell a pregnant lady what to do.
You could do it, they say. But yes, the HELLP could come on within 24 hours, and your liver could fail.
We would watch you, they say. But we can’t stop you from getting sick.
We don’t know what will happen to the baby.
And so the hopes I had tucked away–of Layla helping me feed a baby, of sisters holding hands or pulling each other’s hair–came back to torment me, whispering: maybe. But the maybe my brain has on repeat does not change the reality that existed before the pregnancy and that will exist after it: My body cannot take it.
I used to want to be the mother who dies for her pregnancy. In my 28th week, woozy and barely able to lift my arms, I tried to convince doctors not to deliver Layla–even though with every minute they delayed I got sicker. Keep her in, I said. I don’t matter. But my attempt at self-sacrifice did her no favors; a body as ill as mine was is not a hospitable place for a baby.
Today, with a toddler who puts on ballet shows for her dolls and scoops ricotta onto layers of dough, I know that I don’t hate myself enough to die. And I love her enough not to. But it’s not enough to just accept this reality.
So I bake. And I roll dough. And I make Sunday sauce to tell Layla–I love you. This is enough.
Tags: abortion, eat me, family, food, jessica valenti, reproductive rights
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing such a personal story.
Holy shit Jessica, the sheer strength of you. I am in awe. Thank you.
What a beautiful piece! Thank you so much for writing this and to the Toast for posting it.
Thank you. So very, very much.
thank you so very much for writing about this
Thank you for the kind words and support, folks – means a lot. And extra thanks to Nicole, who showed extraordinary care with this piece as an editor.
I’m reading this for the third time and crying all over again. The phrase “this is enough” is all at once so beautiful and so difficult and so sad. What a powerful piece. Thank you.
Jessica, thank you for sharing this.
This is lovely- thank you.
When the debate of pro-choice comes up, it’s always surrounding an irresponsible woman making the decision or forcing a rape victim to keep the product of her assault. The conversation never falls on situations that would require the same debate and produces the same turmoil. No reason is better than the other, but I appreciate you for shining a light on a situation that is not often discussed when the abortion debate happens. This is a prime example of why we should have this choice–a personal choice. Superb article! Best thing I’ve read all month.
Simply beautiful. You are obviously a great Mommy and Layla is very lucky.
This resonates with me, and I don’t quite know why. I have no children. I’m not married any longer. I never wanted kids, but of late I’ve started to shift that thought process a little bit, thanks to the man I’m with now. I think this article and the ones you wrote previously and linked here articulate some of my unknown and nameless fears in a straighforward way, and make me realize that everything I’m fearing without realizing it can be something I can come back from. Thank you so very much for this.
Thank you. <3
When talking about abortion, I frequently bring up this type of scenerio and ask why children already born are less important than the unborn and not viable. I know someone who had to make the same choice in a somewhat different situaion. Thank you so much for sharing an example people never consder.
Yes. I know someone who had HELLP, and I was so frightened for her hearing about it in retrospect. I’ve always been for abortion rights, but that made me realize even more that pregnancy is dangerous in more ways than most people who have an opinion on abortion bother to really think about, and that no one should have the right to make the decision about it for someone else.
Thank you very much for sharing this. I know that this is more closely related with your original piece in the Guardian than the piece here, but you would probably be very interested in a chapter of Stephen Pinker’s The Better Angels of Our Nature. To give you a warning, the chapter in question deals with the question, “why do some mothers kill their children?” but this is a launching point to discuss the question of mother-child bonding. There was a lot to say about a mother’s love developing well after the birth as precisely the kind of mechanism you suspected – a self-protective measure in case the baby didn’t make it. The idea of instant maternal love, he essentially puts forth, is a product of a society in which we expect our children to survive. You might find it interesting and perhaps comforting.
I’m sorry to hear you have to deal with this. My mother had 6 ectopic pregnancies, all of which ended in miscarriages. Finally the doctors told her she had to stop trying because it was way too dangerous. That was hard for her to hear, but she ended up adopting me 😀
So although this is difficult, if you really want your daughter to have a sister, there’s always adoption <3
Beautiful. Layla is so lucky to have you.
This brought tears to my eyes. Wonderful
What a beautiful piece. Thank you. Layla is a lucky lucky little girl.
…and Layla will find sisters from other mothers that she will love intensely, dance, and fight with, cry to, and rebel with, based on your modelled feminist friendships that she sees and lives.
This is gorgeous, Jessica. Thanks for cooking with your girl.
So lovely. The baby one cannot have. I always wanted children, but when the opportunity arose, it was just Not Viable. It was the right decision, although I still calculate how old the jellybean would be. My life is good. My life is SO much better than I ever thought it would be. Bittersweet is the taste of the right decision.
You can dance and jump on the sofa with her while listening to Buddy Holly on Sundays!!! Awesome story! You’re an amazing human being!
Just reading this now. Really beautiful story…thank you for sharing it.
Beautiful piece and I agree with others that it’s an important story. But I didn’t realize abortion was involved until I saw the tag at the end. Why bury the lede? This issue is too vital to be winked at.
This was amazing and brave and beautifully written. Thank you so much.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story.
I have been a loyal fan of your writing, since reading Full Frontal Feminism. Thank you for sharing. I don’t know what you must have gone through, but I appreciate your willingness and ability to share. You are incredibly brave and Layla is lucky to have a family like yours.
Thanks Jessica, this was hard but beautiful. I have followed you from the early days of Feministing, learned the ropes with your books… up to Why have kids? and Layla’s story.
I am now a new mother of a 2 month old girl. Thanks for the inspiration to raise her to be strong and independent, looking forward to many sunday sauces.
Thank you so much for sharing your story.
I am so, so terribly sorry for your loss. I’m even more sorry that you had to make such a terrible – but sadly necessary – decision; it is truly a mother’s worst nightmare come true. I can’t even begin to imagine the depths of your grief.
You and your family will be in our family’s thoughts and prayers. There are going to be some difficult milestones ahead – be gentle with yourself, and wrap yourself in Layla’s hugs, smiles, and kisses. They won’t replace your loss, but they will help you bear some of the pain and get you through the hard days ♥♥♥
I am so, so terribly sorry for your loss. I'm even more sorry that you had to make such a terrible – but sadly necessary – decision; it is truly a mother's worst nightmare come true. I can't even begin to imagine the depths of your grief.
You and your family will be in our family's thoughts and prayers. There are going to be some difficult milestones ahead – be gentle with yourself, and wrap yourself in Layla's hugs, smiles, and kisses. They won't replace your loss, but they will help you bear some of the pain and get you through the hard days ♥♥♥