When you have a newborn you fall into a sleep deprived, emotionally driven haze. You put your car keys in the freezer, put the clean diaper on without taking the dirty one off, and you crumple to tears when you try to add up the amount of sleep you've gotten in the last 36 hours. (A number which may very well be in the single digits.) Your husband stands timidly at a distance wanting to help, but also knowing the greatest gift he can give you is to let you yell at him for awhile without expecting you to be logical or sorry when it comes out like, "Well maybe your mom is too nice, have you thought about THAT?!" Everything is hard. Normal things are ridiculously difficult. Taking a shower feels like finishing a marathon. Remembering to put deodorant on afterwards is the equivalent of a gold medal. How are you supposed to keep on being a person on top of all that?
So you go to sleep. (Unexpectedly, because it's one of those little tidbits no one ever shares with you beforehand.) You begin to realize that you can't go on as you are. You are too much to carry. Your interests, aspects of your personality, even some of your relationships have become too burdensome and time consuming. So you set down the things that are no longer vital and tuck them away for a long nap. Long term plans, hobbies, acquaintances, brooms, scrapbooking, eyeliner, and anything that has to do with current events. Not everything, and not the same things for everyone, but you lay down enough so that you can carry on, and you let those things slumber for however long. Some days you have to set everything down but the baby itself; you are alive, the baby is alive, and you don't care what eating out does to the budget, he's picking up Chick-fil-a on his way home. (May God help him if he forgets the sauce.) Other days you vaguely remember having opinions about things like climate change and GMOs and what happens in the second half of the movie you tried to watch the previous night.
Then, suddenly, your baby has nearly as many teeth as you do. He waddles around and eats goldfish crackers off the floor and sleeps through the night (LOL...but you get the point). For the first time in months (or years) you start to wake up. You stretch and wipe the sleep paste from your eyes, except you can't really stretch because your back is still out of place from lugging that baby carrier around for six months ... and the paste in your eyes is probably the pink eye your kid gave you (maybe you should get that checked out), and you are trying to figure out what year it is now and how old you might be. (Thirty-ish? Maybe.) You blink into the slanted rays of light coming through the blinds and you realize that it's gotten later, you're older, and there are still things you would like to do before the day is through. Also, you probably want a snack, but I digress.
Now I'll speak plainly for you people who are not fluent in avoidably complex metaphor. To become a mother is to experience the high of selflessness. There is absolutely nothing you would not joyfully give up or lay down for your new precious baby, even if it is whole pieces of your identity. That will never change. Whether your baby is brand new or 52, you give whatever you can for their success. However, what is required of you changes over time. It ebbs and flows. There comes a point when, after giving up everything for so long, they need you a little less, or at least a little differently. You are left with some empty time and a shelf full of dusty, slumbering pieces of yourself that you can either pick up and dust off, or forget about altogether. Should you call up that old friend and see if they can meet for a coffee date? Should you pull your paint and brushes out from the attic? Should you crochet? Begin Crossfit training? Start a garden? Finish reading the pile of books on your nightstand? ...... Should you write?
Even though I'm groggy, out of practice, and generally terrified of public opinion, I am choosing to write. I wasted too many years before I had kids worrying that I was unqualified and untalented, but I'm different now. I have spent the last six years walking around Walmart wearing leggings as pants and having so much dry shampoo matted into my hair it looked like I was in need of troll magic to remove the ice from my heart. Now I am shameless.
In light of all of this, an announcement: I am going to release a story I have been working on in a series of posts starting later this week. It isn't a funny story about my kids (losses the two subscribers I have). It's a work of fiction about a young woman who inherits a sword from a father she never knew, and the journey she embarks on to find him. It's called The Maiden of Inglaydius.
(Note: I ate an entire pint of ice cream while writing this post. You guys make me anxious.)
Now I'll speak plainly for you people who are not fluent in avoidably complex metaphor. To become a mother is to experience the high of selflessness. There is absolutely nothing you would not joyfully give up or lay down for your new precious baby, even if it is whole pieces of your identity. That will never change. Whether your baby is brand new or 52, you give whatever you can for their success. However, what is required of you changes over time. It ebbs and flows. There comes a point when, after giving up everything for so long, they need you a little less, or at least a little differently. You are left with some empty time and a shelf full of dusty, slumbering pieces of yourself that you can either pick up and dust off, or forget about altogether. Should you call up that old friend and see if they can meet for a coffee date? Should you pull your paint and brushes out from the attic? Should you crochet? Begin Crossfit training? Start a garden? Finish reading the pile of books on your nightstand? ...... Should you write?
Even though I'm groggy, out of practice, and generally terrified of public opinion, I am choosing to write. I wasted too many years before I had kids worrying that I was unqualified and untalented, but I'm different now. I have spent the last six years walking around Walmart wearing leggings as pants and having so much dry shampoo matted into my hair it looked like I was in need of troll magic to remove the ice from my heart. Now I am shameless.
In light of all of this, an announcement: I am going to release a story I have been working on in a series of posts starting later this week. It isn't a funny story about my kids (losses the two subscribers I have). It's a work of fiction about a young woman who inherits a sword from a father she never knew, and the journey she embarks on to find him. It's called The Maiden of Inglaydius.
(Note: I ate an entire pint of ice cream while writing this post. You guys make me anxious.)
I feel motivated to get my hooks out of the attic and crochet a crossfit garden...after my nap. I can't wait to meet the maiden!
ReplyDeleteThis is something an old Rachel would read and become terrified of being a mom. But now it just makes me terribly proud to be apart of a group of women (and, fine, men) who get to raise these little terrors that change everything.
ReplyDeleteYes yes yes yes YES!!!!!!!!!! PERFECTLY SAID!!!!!!!!!!! And bring on the MAIDEN!!!!! ⚔
ReplyDeleteI love every bit of this. Especially, "I have spent the last 6 years walking around walmart wearing leggings as pants"...made me laugh out loud. So anyways, now that your attire has brought you out of your shell😜, I can't wait to read your story as you post it:)
ReplyDelete