Forgive yourself. Or go shopping while you dwell. The rumble you heard the other day wasn't a burgeoning storm, it was silly me. I morphed into the Incredible Hulking Mother. Voice that boomed, eyebrows arched and a mouth obnoxiously drawn south. Owed to my mental exhaustion, I stupidly wondered if the word Mother might include the word "other" as kind of a sick joke to people like me who feel like they are utterly imperfect at tackling the tough science.
Motherhood, though common enough to be sorely undercelebrated, is still an exotic beauty.
A butterfly, with striking wings of powder. Hard to catch. Fleeting.
She is a Queen. Reigning from the throne one minute, but then humbly falls to her knees pleading royal mercy the next.
This Motherhood is wild as galing winds. Whimsical as a harp's floating notes.
She deeply ingraves herself upon you, digging her fingers through layers to reach your emotional epicenter and firmly instilling incomparable joy there. But then she turns snarky, brutish and cruelly laughs at you right to your goddamn face.
A Jekyll and Hyde she can be, if you will.
One day I'm on top of this game: loving, patient and organized. Or just loving and patient. Organization can get fucked. The next day I'm impossible, grotesque puddles of ineptitude.
A Jekyll and Hyde she can be, if you will.
One day I'm on top of this game: loving, patient and organized. Or just loving and patient. Organization can get fucked. The next day I'm impossible, grotesque puddles of ineptitude.
The only Mother's Day Out program I participate in is the one in which I pour myself a shamefully enormous glass of wine about the time I think my husband is going to be home from work.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton once wrote scathingly of the full-time occupation that is being planted in the home attending to child(ren) and domestic matters. She said, "I now understood the practical difficulties most women had to contend with in the isolated household... The general discontent I felt with woman's portion as wife, mother, housekeeper, physician, and spiritual guide, the chaotic condition into which everything fell without her constant supervision, and the wearied, anxious look of the majority of women..."
The day of my hulking out, I crashed through the door of my grandmother's home with tears swelling, then spilling as a solid, raging sea sends its waves inland obliterating levies and crushing hearts. My soul was a little gnarled at my frustrations, but downright pained at how inexcusable it all seemed.
Will you accept my weary admission that I was frustrated with Motherhood and not be too harsh in your judgment?
Testament to how taxed I felt being home alone everyday with little hands perpetually yanking at my pants, seemingly never satisfied with all the one-on-one devotion, the whining, the tantrums, the boredom yielding mischief, was that nearly-violent cascade of tears.
I was sobbing.
All the heady demands of a toddler can once in awhile come across like little daggers in the heart of a dedicated Mother's overwhelming and meticulous attention to categorically meeting needs - always meeting them perfectly, wholly and with unconditional love.
My sister calls it being "touched out".
What I didn't expect about Motherhood was the lack of built in infrastructure with which to navigate the hard emotional times. You don't get emotional insurance with a baby. No, you scratch and claw to find that insurance through your complex, delicate web of friends and family. You are never more thankful for those who understand and convey it with kind words.
Though I do love me a new pair of nicely fitting jeans which I never seem to find in a price I am willing to absorb, I'm not one to think of shopping as much of a fix for things. Still, perhaps there was a little something I could purchase at the used goods gettinplace that would make me feel better?
My sister calls it being "touched out".
What I didn't expect about Motherhood was the lack of built in infrastructure with which to navigate the hard emotional times. You don't get emotional insurance with a baby. No, you scratch and claw to find that insurance through your complex, delicate web of friends and family. You are never more thankful for those who understand and convey it with kind words.
My grandmother peered at me through sympathetic, wrinkled eyes and hushed me. "You're just tired. And you need a break. All Mom's do. So go. Go shopping. Leave him here with me. You need some time to be alone," she said.
So I left and went rambling about second-hand shops, a gorilla's worth of feeling incompetent clinging pitilessly to my back.
So I left and went rambling about second-hand shops, a gorilla's worth of feeling incompetent clinging pitilessly to my back.
Though I do love me a new pair of nicely fitting jeans which I never seem to find in a price I am willing to absorb, I'm not one to think of shopping as much of a fix for things. Still, perhaps there was a little something I could purchase at the used goods gettinplace that would make me feel better?
Then it dawned.
My frustration, a combination of feeling professionally uprooted, inadequate, and yes mentally exhausted by my son and I running circles around each other in the house all day and his endless demands for my attention, amounted to nothing.
But that nothing was still clouding my mind and truncating my memory.
What I needed that day were things money couldn't touch: Composure. Perspective.
I needed a little bit of space and time to recharge yes, but I also needed to intensely reflect on the totality of Motherhood.
I don't have to tell you that Motherhood is gain, Motherhood is loss.
Forget about how domestically disabled I may be, I am a privileged stay-at-home Mother. And a privilege it really is, folks.
Lest you doubt.
Actually, I'll take a bold, giant capital P with that Privilege. Pretty sure that Privilege needs to be italicized too.
I am a Mother who never tried to conceive, or carry a child for nine months, or bear that child through excruciating pain and tribulation. I am a Mother who gained the Privilege of raising my son solely by virtue of a perfect storm of harrowing factors rendering Mothering him impossible for another human being. Displacement of her. Enter me.
I'm not a Mother enduring a ruptured uterus, or a fistula, or one conquering incredible odds.
That day, above all, I felt like an ungrateful, coward of a Mother. One doing Motherhood a terrible injustice. Entirely uninspired and making a mockery of the whole thing.
My son's face, that uniquely handsome one that turns countless heads, his gazillion dollar smile, intensely sweet kisses, and innocent embraces are surely missed by she whom did not receive the Privilege I enjoy.
The Privilege of looking upon such a warm countenance frequently lit up by unbridled childish joy must be missed. The Privilege of receiving his adoration, his adulation, so unremittingly must be missed. The Privilege of being knocked absolutely breathless with the little miracle that he is must be missed.
How could it possibly not? I mean, you just have to see my son. He is incredible.
In fact, it could have been the persistent yanking of those miniature, soft hands of perfection that she'd have relished the most.
I can't imagine suffering the loss of this child with whom I have almost-inexplicably been bestowed the otherworldly Privilege of raising.
In the wake of my foolish episode, I began to see things more clearly. I began to get better at staying home with a little one and not just staying home, but creating a way of life and devising more activities. I began to allow it to define me. And it only took one measly year.
Yet now, strangely, I feel stronger and more capable of being his Mother.
My frustration, a combination of feeling professionally uprooted, inadequate, and yes mentally exhausted by my son and I running circles around each other in the house all day and his endless demands for my attention, amounted to nothing.
But that nothing was still clouding my mind and truncating my memory.
What I needed that day were things money couldn't touch: Composure. Perspective.
I needed a little bit of space and time to recharge yes, but I also needed to intensely reflect on the totality of Motherhood.
I don't have to tell you that Motherhood is gain, Motherhood is loss.
Forget about how domestically disabled I may be, I am a privileged stay-at-home Mother. And a privilege it really is, folks.
Lest you doubt.
Actually, I'll take a bold, giant capital P with that Privilege. Pretty sure that Privilege needs to be italicized too.
I am a Mother who never tried to conceive, or carry a child for nine months, or bear that child through excruciating pain and tribulation. I am a Mother who gained the Privilege of raising my son solely by virtue of a perfect storm of harrowing factors rendering Mothering him impossible for another human being. Displacement of her. Enter me.
I'm not a Mother enduring a ruptured uterus, or a fistula, or one conquering incredible odds.
That day, above all, I felt like an ungrateful, coward of a Mother. One doing Motherhood a terrible injustice. Entirely uninspired and making a mockery of the whole thing.
Undeserving.
Nauseous with guilt over my indulgent breakdown.
Who the hell was I to feel exhausted by the day-in day-out of staying at home with one toddler?
Nauseous with guilt over my indulgent breakdown.
Who the hell was I to feel exhausted by the day-in day-out of staying at home with one toddler?
What right did I have?
God, I was being such an asshole.
My son's face, that uniquely handsome one that turns countless heads, his gazillion dollar smile, intensely sweet kisses, and innocent embraces are surely missed by she whom did not receive the Privilege I enjoy.
The Privilege of looking upon such a warm countenance frequently lit up by unbridled childish joy must be missed. The Privilege of receiving his adoration, his adulation, so unremittingly must be missed. The Privilege of being knocked absolutely breathless with the little miracle that he is must be missed.
How could it possibly not? I mean, you just have to see my son. He is incredible.
In fact, it could have been the persistent yanking of those miniature, soft hands of perfection that she'd have relished the most.
I can't imagine suffering the loss of this child with whom I have almost-inexplicably been bestowed the otherworldly Privilege of raising.
In the wake of my foolish episode, I began to see things more clearly. I began to get better at staying home with a little one and not just staying home, but creating a way of life and devising more activities. I began to allow it to define me. And it only took one measly year.
Yet now, strangely, I feel stronger and more capable of being his Mother.
I always knew I could do this from an intellectual standpoint. Educating myself, advocating, transforming myself into an ally - those were things I could do.
The day-to-day Mothering as a practical matter, well, I was perhaps more unprepared. Perhaps emotionally and mentally hampered by my own baggage and ignorance.
My own selfishness. My own impatience. My own distorted expectations.
My own selfishness. My own impatience. My own distorted expectations.
But I am starting to be deserving of this Privilege. I am trying harder to be. Because he deserves that at least I am more deserving, if true deserts can't exist. And I really don't think they do when you're talking about intercountry adoption.
I think it is hard to balance constructively criticizing the job your doing with not being overly critical of yourself. Therein lies a special difficulty that perhaps only something as unique as Motherhood entails. I struggle with it.
I've found, however, if I forgive myself my moments of weakness, this Motherhood thing actually comes together much better like a finely wrought symphony.
Forgive yourself the bad times, Mothers. Forgive yourself the valleys of humility, to use a phrase from Ms. Angelou. Forgive yourself for not being perfect. When you're through the valley, may those stumbling blocks convert to building blocks. May you be strengthened by the further compassion, empathy and patience this position can teach you. May I continue to allow it to teach me.
I think it is hard to balance constructively criticizing the job your doing with not being overly critical of yourself. Therein lies a special difficulty that perhaps only something as unique as Motherhood entails. I struggle with it.
I've found, however, if I forgive myself my moments of weakness, this Motherhood thing actually comes together much better like a finely wrought symphony.
Forgive yourself the bad times, Mothers. Forgive yourself the valleys of humility, to use a phrase from Ms. Angelou. Forgive yourself for not being perfect. When you're through the valley, may those stumbling blocks convert to building blocks. May you be strengthened by the further compassion, empathy and patience this position can teach you. May I continue to allow it to teach me.
Your job is tough. But never doubt that it is incredibly special. Beautiful and rare, like that butterfly with striking wings of powder.
Even these words, so paltry, can't do Motherhood a lick of justice.
Happy Mother's Day.
Happy Mother's Day.
