This entry discusses hardships of parenting. But my family is safe and well, unlike the people of Palestine. Take action for a ceasefire and a free Palestine however you can. Learn, share, donate, protest, write letters, make calls. Whatever you do, please don’t look away.
Hello friends and readers! It has been over a year since I last sent out a newsletter. This is not because I have been working on other projects or because I’m stuck in a creative rut of some sort. I have had zero, or maybe even negative, time and energy for anything outside of parenting. I have drafted, rewritten, scrapped and started over an entry in tiny pieces over the whole time. What I really wanted to tell you is that these first few years of motherhood have been hard on me. Not just very hard or really hard but sometimes impossibly hard. Naturally I needed to provide you with proof of this by systematically committing every detail of the past few years onto paper. My relentless schedule, my sufferings, and all the rest of my revelations on this difficult life chapter. I wanted to tell you about how it’s the first time in my life that I’ve gone on antidepressants and how I felt like if I didn’t have them I might not survive, that when I needed it the most I couldn’t even get through a single therapy session because I had a non-stop crying velcro baby, how I’ve called a few crisis hotlines for the first time ever. I would of course follow these details up with a palate cleanser of a beautifully written paragraph on my sweet little boy and the joys of motherhood so you know I’m a good mom, etc.
Something felt so bad about all these attempts to explain. I asked myself “why do I need to provide evidence?” Why is it not good enough to simply say “this has been really hard for me.” The one word answer to that question is shame. It’s like, if I can draw you a diagram you’ll unequivocally understand and I will be judgment proof. I have been very open about my experience of infertility and how hard I fought to have a child; it’s embarrassing that I am bombing so hard at handling parenthood so far.
There’s something that lives at the bottom of the pit I’ve struggled to pull myself out of these past years. When I’ve hit close to that bottom, a mysterious question floats out from the darkness as if it comes from someplace that isn’t even a part of me.
“Am I even a person?”
It doesn’t exactly make sense. Of course mothers are people. But this is how the worst times have felt. Like maybe I’m just a flesh machine that exists to keep a baby alive. Or worse… that I’m disappearing. Losing myself.
Then one day I found the strength to grab hold of this slippery question out of the murky depths, slap it around a bit while screaming “what the fuck are you and what do you want from me?!”
And then I wrote a poem. I am not normally a poet but it felt good to write it. Whether or not it’s any good, I’ve decided that the poem is good enough for now.
Is a mother a person?
It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. We should get together.
Would you like to come to my apartment? The floor is coated with sticky apple pulp and on top of that a layer of cheerio crumbs. I was going to mop but I was just waiting till I could breathe again.
I can’t really get out evenings, but sure, we can try talking on the phone.
He doesn’t like it when I leave. He’ll bang and scratch on the door, calling out for me while choking on his sobs. His eyebrows turn bright red when he cries like this. I’ll interrupt you to comfort him. When he gets this upset he barfs. I’ll have to suddenly say goodbye. Once he’s asleep later I’ll cry till my eyebrows turn red because I miss you. I miss the person I was who could be a friend. It hurts to pretend I can still be her.
I thought about a painting for a while. A still life painting. Fruit and breakfast cereal on a melamine table. I thought about how it would feel to paint it, and for it to be seen. I thought about the painting for a few years. Then I did the laundry and built a figure eight train track for some little wooden trains.
Or I could meet you somewhere for lunch. My boy is in daycare now, so I have a bit of time. The neighbours don’t say hi to me when we pass on the street. They don’t recognize me without the stroller.
Can we go somewhere cheap? I don’t earn any money. My pockets are filled with sand, bouncy balls and rags crusted with snot that’s not my own.
Ok I’ll text you in the morning.
I sleep in fits and starts in a little boys little bed and sometimes we soak in his wet pee. It should be uncomfortable but we fit together just right, breathing in the same air in a heavy white noise machine nightlight stillness that I wait for all day. My big body fills in all the space where he is not - like the night sky holding onto the moon. He wakes in the night a few times and I wonder at what point in his little life will he begin to rise without screaming.
I rise at 5:00 am already punched in and in uniform. My greasy hair is piled in a tangle atop my head, it’s scented faintly of curdled milk vomit. The knees of my sweatpants protrude out like ghosts. They are threadbare to translucence. I am adorned with stains and smears. My boobs knock around in a saggy top like two pyramids of melting jello. My crotch and butthole stink; I can smell them from up here. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll shower on the weekend.
I can’t wait to see you.
Hey I’m so sorry to do this but I can’t make it for lunch. My kid has pinkeye.
This entry and that poem are a nutshell of the past two years, but I am here to say that things have been getting better, mostly because of affordable daycare. It’s been a major adjustment but I do feel the weight of these years lifting. My little sweetie boy is 2 now, which is starting to be a really fun time: trikes, toilet humour, epic cuddles, belly laughs, micro adventures, hot wheels, collecting rocks, watching tiny friendships grow, hearing “wuv you, mommy.” I still feel like I’m in the thick of this intense season of my life, but I’m taking little baby steps towards returning to myself. If you haven’t heard from me lately, or you’re waiting for new artwork, I’m sorry I was absent. I checked out for a while, but I’m looking to check back in.
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Thank you for reading. It should come as no surprise that I don’t have any news or announcements at the moment, except that after closing my shop while I focused on surviving, I’ve opened it up again and have a print on sale. Thanks so much to my readers for staying with me, or joining in at this wacky time! I hope to share more in the very near future.
I remember going to a professional development event and getting into a conversation with other teachers about being a parent. At that point I was really struggling with the change in my life, and I very frankly said that it was hard, I enjoyed very little of it, and I don't know if I want another kid. One person at the table was so taken aback by what I said -- I immediately regretted my candid answer. Later on someone said to me privately that they were happy someone was willing to be honest about struggling in this phase of parenting.
My kid is 3.5, and I do think so much has gotten easier. I find myself looking back at the earlier stages (mostly before 14 months) thinking that I must have had a bad attitude or something - like it's my fault I struggled as much as I did. I *know* that isn't true, but that persistent guilt is there.
I deeply relate to and appreciate what you have shared here. Thank you.