What have you been up to lately… just Moming?
That’s the question I was asked by a friend recently. It’s the just that did it for me.
Just.
You know when you read a word over and over or say it too many times and it no longer looks like a word?
Just. Just. Just.
It’s more than a word. It’s a judgment. A jab. A shaming. Isn’t it? Do you feel this way too? Or am I being defensive?
The meaning of just in this context: simply; only; no more than.
There is no “just” in being a mother.
You are a mother and you are everything else.
What have you been up to lately?
Caring for a human being who is so new to this planet they have yet to speak the language.
Care. Care. Care. A word that is so much more than a word. A gift. A responsibility. A whole life.
Care. Not only in the I care for you emotional way, which comes with middle-of-the-night sweats from loving someone so much that their lack of existence would lead to the disappearance of your own. But also, caring in a physical way; in the bathing, the dressing, the diaper changing. Oh, the diaper changing. The shit and the piss of it all.
Once, my son shit in the bath and all of his bath toys had to be doused with vinegar. Have you ever knelt on aching knees, draped over a tub, singing stupid songs through tired teeth while you rinsed your child from their own excrement? What about wrangling soft, little flying limbs into tiny sleeves one, two, three, four times a day—making a game of it, making every single thing fun and silly even when it’s not your nature to be fun and silly?
What have you been up to lately?
I’ve been showing a tiny human how to stay alive in the world. How to thrive against all odds. I am under the crushing weight of responsibility to embody everything good I want to see in the world and to model that for my child (no pressure). But this is a gift. The open arms, the aching back, the constant giving of yourself away. All of it is a gift. But it doesn’t mean it’s not hard. It doesn’t mean that there aren’t some days when I forget to breathe.
Have you ever stopped to think about what love is? The kind of love that keeps you up at night with its hysterical longing. Do you know how to not only give it and accept it but to be it, to teach it to an entirely new being? Have you ever thought about every word that leaves your mouth? Before I speak, I ask myself three questions: Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary? I do this because there is power in words, power in speaking things out loud, and I want my son to know how to use language to build a good life for himself and others.
I say I am affirmations with my baby in the blue morning light because I know it’s important for him to know his self-worth even though at thirty-six, I still don’t know mine. I am kind. I am loved. I am brave. I am smart. And so on. He watches my mouth and he smiles, and one day, I will be watching him speak the same words.
What have you been up to lately?
Oh, you mean, besides running a thriving and successful business that I founded and own while I hear my son’s screeches of joy downstairs, his little feet on the old wood floors running to someone else, someone that isn’t me? I pay the bills, schedule all the appointments, make the grocery list, and move through childhood and birth trauma when he’s asleep. I don’t want to miss one single thing from his beautiful whimsical life. And herein lies the screaming ache I can never seem to quiet.
My feet are tired from walking the tightrope between writer and mother. How do I justify the time I need to keep my art sacred, to do the damn work, when it takes me away from my son? In eighteen years when he’s off creating his own life, will I regret all the tiny moments I missed while I was hunched over my writing desk wringing words onto the page? Will I have anything of worth to show him? Will he understand? Will he be proud? Let me ask you, have you ever had your identity severed? Have you ever been split in two? Have you ever had to let go and hold tight at the same time? Look at your hands. Do your fingers pulse with self-doubt and indecision? Mine do.
What have you been up to lately?
Have I told you about how I care for my once meth-addicted mother? She lives in my home and it puts a strain on my marriage. She means well and I know that she loves me, but she can’t help but be one more person who needs something from me. I have been parenting her since before I could tie my shoes and I don’t know how to stop. Do you know what it’s like being everything to everyone? My cousin says that I am like an orchestra conductor or Mickey Mouse from Fantasia. If only I had that level of grace, that level of magic.
I fight against being a nag, a drag, a woman who has let herself go. I’m trying to go for a walk every day, y’know, so that I can “get my body back.” Whose body am I in now? I don’t know. Do you? I’m trying to live up to the societal standards of being a woman while at the same time rejecting them to honor my feminist worldview. How do I teach my son a new way of living when I can’t even break the mold that has been cast on me?
What have you been up to lately?
I’m trying to take a goddamn shower. How about you? I shave my legs so fast that the razor slips through my fingers. I catch it upon reflex and slice my thumb in not one, not two, but three places. The blood swirls from red to pink at my feet and I wash my hair one-handed because I’ve lost track of when I washed it last. Wait. Do you hear the baby crying? Because I do every single time I turn on the water. Shhh. There it is again.
Oh, and don’t let me forget to tell you about the cooking and the feeding. Three meals, two snacks, countless cups of spilled water, bottles that pile up by the sink. Have you ever stood over the kitchen counter quartering organic grapes just for them to be thrown on the floor? What about washing bottles until the skin of your fingers split open like an over-watered tomato? Look at your hands again. What do they tell you about your life? Let me tell you about mine. Let me tell you about the time I walked around all day with avocado in my hair and no one told me, or maybe no one noticed, because I am now part of the unspoken club of invisible mothers. Can you even hear me?
I put oatmeal to simmer on the stove and empty the dishwasher. My son runs from room to room, bringing me trucks and stuffed animals, holding them in the air until I notice him, until I take them in my own hands. Then he presses his fingers together to sign for more. More what? More oatmeal? More music? More toys? More me? When the oatmeal finishes, I mix it with milk and cinnamon and scoop it into his tray with the three little compartments that are always judging me. I need to come up with two other nutritious things to offer him or I am a bad mother. I peel clementines and the juice runs under the bandaid and into the open gashes on my thumb. It stings. But I keep peeling, keep pulling the flesh of the fruit away from the peel, away from the pith. Wait. I still need one more thing. Do you have any ideas?
After breakfast, there’s still the laundry and the house cleaning, and don’t forget about the flower beds that need weeding. Have you ever vacuumed an old two-story house with a child on your hip until your bones were bruised from their weight? The laundry piles up on the bedroom floor while I push the baby around in the laundry basket. He does a belly laugh and I am grateful to be alive. I memorize the KonMari fold. One, two, three folds, sliding his tiny clothes into a drawer. I cry when he grows too big for them because with every joy, every gain, every growth, comes a loss.
What have you been up to lately… just Moming?
Just. Just. Just.
Just learning how to be a mother without shame.
Just.
Find a new word.
Ask better questions.
This piece came not only from the question itself but also from a writing prompt by Trust and Travel. The question had been burning in the back of my mind, on the edges of my heart, at the tips of my fingers, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Then I read the Trust and Travel prompt and this whole essay poured out of me. I’ve condensed the piece down to honor the form of the prompt.
Thank you Trust and Travel for providing the inspiration to pull this out of me after a two-week break from writing. It was exactly what I needed to get back to the work, and back to myself. You can find the original prompt here. And if you don’t already, give them a follow on Instagram for daily writing (and living) inspiration.
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Beware, hearing the baby crying in the shower will turn into a teenager yelling mama!! Beautiful essay.
Hearin