All the Things Motherish
Motherhood, mirth not martyrdom.
“Dear Me and You,”
A (nearly) daily letter to the me in the moment, to you, and to the you I will be tomorrow.
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A (nearly) daily letter to the me in the moment, to you, and to the you I will be tomorrow.
A tear rolled down her cheek. Dr. Dan said, “She’s sedated.” And so I watched as he deftly stitched her lip together. Another tear rolled down her cheek and he assured me that it was common and normal.
Cool.
The term vulva is used with frequency in our house, in part because there are four females and mostly because we have established that not every night needs to be an essential-oil infused bubble bath, embracing that our kids are exhausted from their days, and I see them when they say, “Mama, I don’t want to shower, I’m tired!” And when I say ‘they say’, I mean they whine, yell, and lament in a very triggering kind of way. Yes, that’s #momlife.
I never would have guessed that I’d be celebrating my 40th birthday without my dad or my sister. And that’s life, we can’t know what it will be, and we certainly can’t control what it will be… and that’s a hard fucking truth. And a great lesson:
We have to just live life, the way it’s put out in front of us, putting forth some effort to improve ourselves and our choices, with the intent to impact our lives positively.
As usual, in life and in parenthood— and in these motherfucking virus-days— flexibility and acceptance are paramount to appreciating the moments. We had plans to frolic in the snow with some friends, which was more for me than the kids. But a case of pneumonia, an ear infection, and a recent diagnosis of asthma shut that shit down.
A poem… written in the moment about how my preparation before the moments don’t help the moments.
I’m awake because in the deepest of deep sleep, which always seems to be happening right before I’m woken up I hear from the tiny monitor speaker on my bedside table, “Mama. I up. Mama, hello. I up.” Cool.
Technology kinks are worked out– mostly. And I’ve already shed some tears. My tears were happy tears. I unearth growth and change in myself. It feels strange to be applauding myself. I like the feeling of being empowered. I like the feeling of being an active participant in my life. And then I hear some giggles and paper slide under my door. I tell my therapist and I put my phone down to retrieve the mysterious delivery. I read the paper out loud, “Are you almost done”.
I love my body. And I don’t love my body. I’ve done a lot of work to be in a much better place, read some amazing books (The Body is Not an Apology and Beyond Beautiful) and talk through the body-shaming that I grew up with in therapy. So, I love my body, and still, sometimes I don’t. I know what my body did. I know what my body can do. And I know that I’m wanting more from my body today.
Weird. It’s weird how memories are autonomous at times, bubbling up from some crevice of your mind, saying hello. I attempted to say goodbye but the memories are lingering. And often, as my mind does, it has jumped into a spiral and now I’m choosing the memories– some good and some bad– and it has an impact. I’m learning to acknowledge my feelings.
And as quickly as I’m overwhelmed with remorse and guilt about my reactionary choices, I stop and take a moment to look at the things I’m also modeling for the team: following my dreams, following through with commitments, and doing something for me. These are all important lessons, important messages, and necessary for the happiness of us all.
I’m learning that moms are looking for connection amongst their own kind— other moms. And when you are vulnerable, authentic, and brave is when you find your own village. Whether you bond with other moms over mushrooms— cooked or magical— it is so valuable to find those connections. Your motherhood, womanhood, and humanhood journeys will thank you.
As a mom we are responsible for so much planning, and thinking, and coordinating, and communicating… it’s exhausting. As a mom we have to be prepared with backup plans because you don’t know if a kid will be sick, or a ride will fall through, or if you will lose your mind. As a mom, having your own mom is a true gift to the journey and process.
To me it feels like life is lived via milestones– we’re always waiting to hit the next one. There are milestones as children, teens, and adults; some are cliche and problematic, a few are painfully accurate, and others are mirthful moments in a lived-life. I’m good with milestones because I’m selecting the milestones that make meaning for me, and I’m leaning into the milestones that my children want to celebrate while shoving away the ones that lead to comparison and competition or even shame.
Everyday I think about my multiple breastfeeding journeys. And I’m thankful for the time I shared with my children. They often bring up my “boob-milk,” They ask if they all breastfed. They ask to see pictures. And the baby, perhaps because our relationship was the most recent seems to have as hard of time saying goodbye to that season of childhood, of motherhood as I do.
I’m sitting on a plane and the last time I was on a plane I was headed out, sans husband and kids, to meet up with my friend, which was also a three night trip. Today, on this plane named, “All Because of Blue”, I’m sitting next to my husband— no kids. My children, all three of them, are at home and will be taken care of by our team of grandparents, who are splitting the four day, three night vacation of ours— because a trip without kids is truly a vacation.