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. To read more from MAGGIE DOWNS, click here.