Motherhood, Mental Health, and the Magic in the Mess. ♡
I’m feeling this profoundly hard today, and I am making this public so I don’t have to answer (as many) questions later:
My broken, bruised and harmful relationship with my mother has reached beyond its inevitable breaking point, and I am finally having the courage to cut ties and walk away.
And, in time, hopefully heal…
There are about a million and a half things I didn’t realize before becoming a mom. Each of which I feel I could write books about if I ever found the will, want and time. Side note: the arrow points to unlikely.
One of these things has me deep in reflection on the day after having now been a mother for four years. (Happy birthday, my bug!). I get odd urges in these moments of reflection to have to write, to make sense of and to hash out. If I don’t, my head won’t shut up.
Here’s the thing.
Before being a mom, or for those who choose not to be a mom, there are things which guide your choices and that move you through the day. Desire, motivation, ambition, necessity — these are but a few of the many.
But a part of you in this regard fundamentally changes in motherhood. You still have those same drivers, but they are now grounded to your child. It’s as if they are now your compass, your dowsing rod, and your true north.
Everything, and I mean everything I do, considers my child. The benefits to, the repercussions of, the impact to, the growth from. It’s instinctual, automatic and dug in deep into these bones.
I don’t think this is the whole “becoming more selfless” of motherhood thing that people sometimes rag childless people on. I’ve never agreed with that, anyways. I know plenty of selfless, childless, wonderful people.
It’s more than that. It’s like the part of your body that formed your kid hasn’t ever fully separated from you. It’s grown into who your child is today, and it becomes such an inseparable, huge piece of you that you feel it in your utter core. It’s still you, but it’s also not, it’s more than you – and that more than you?
It bewitches you. It envelopes, it consumes, it sets your heart afloat, and it begs you not to fuck this up. It reckons, it’s a merciless relenting of love and letting go, and it refuses to go unanswered in anything and everything you do. It’s in your every thought and your every choice.
It is your new bearing, and from it, you start anew from the very foundation of doing you.
I was not ready for this. I did not expect this. But, I am here for this. 💚
7 years married, 11.5 years together.
D, I have no idea how you continue to love me, support me and put up with me. Truly. It baffles me.
We’ve changed a lot these past years — and not always in the same direction. We’ve given each other the space and the love we needed to find ourselves among such change, however. We’ve experienced the reckoning that is having a kid, and how to put the pieces back together of our marriage and our identities in its wake. We’ve loved, we’ve struggled, we’ve worked hard, and we’ve refused to give up.
We are entwined. Deeply. These roots are infallible. We might not always see eye to eye, and sure, we make each other a little crazy, but you are my home. I know not myself or my life without you.
And you’re still the one.
You always will be. 💚
We just got back from a trip to Las Vegas.
We’re home, unpacked, resting and watching O engage with his play space like it’s the most magical ever (and thank goodness for that, ‘cause we are tapped and have nothing at this moment to give him).
We may be tired, but the trip worked out well.
It was sad to say goodbye, as it always is, but I’m happy to have learned more about the resilient parts of my child.
He CAN stay the night somewhere else and actually sleep.
He CAN stay up late, or skip a nap, and not be a total mess as a result.
He CAN withstand a plane ride and all it’s weird/loud sounds and “not being able to move around lots” bits.
He CAN warm up to animals and in time, pet them and grow to be okay around them.
He CAN be at large gatherings for long periods of time and not completely shutdown because of all the loud sounds.
He CAN make his own way in places he’s never been and with people he’s never met or remembers ever meeting.
He CAN find camaraderie with his counsins and love his Vegas family from the get go, even if he hasn’t seen them face to face much in his life.
He CAN bust a sweet dance move to any length of music (expected or not), dislike other people’s “ceilings” and be terrified of his baby cousin no matter how freakin’ hard you assure him that he’s safe.
Some of these things may be obvious, and they should be even more obvious to me as an early childhood educator.
That’s the thing with post-partum anxiety + first time motherhood, though.
You convince yourself of everything but the obvious.
It was so good to be proved wrong. 💚
Thank you to those who told me it was time. You were right.
Want to know how exciting my life is as a mom? Read on.
I’m in a dressing room at Change (a bra store here in Canada).
I’ve just tried on a new and different bra after bringing back two I bought last week that 1) one had already broken and 2) kept stabbing me in my side-boob (looks like I wasn’t sized correctly the first time around). So, I’m rocking nothing but a bra and a pair of SWEET tights, and the fitting attendant asks me to do some exercises for “four minutes” (who comes up with these times?) to make sure this bra doesn’t also try to murder me. Sure thing, I say.
She leaves, and I start with some stretches. Stretches soon turn into a full out dance party, and THEN out comes the Sprinkler, ‘cause there aint no dance party until that move hits the floor. However, I underestimate the amount of space in the dress room and proceed to wack my ‘sprinkler’ hand HARD against the mirror. It hurts like shit, I’m screaming inside as there are people on either side of me in their own dressing rooms wondering what the fresh hell it is that I’m doing, and I proceed to spend the next three minutes quietly sitting down and assuring myself that this bra will do just fine.
Thankfully, it’s had no issues yet.
AND THAT IS MY STORY OF A TEENY TINY BRUISE.
