Water is refreshing. Water is the life force that connects us all. It can be angry (the ocean during a storm), calm (a lake), or happy (a gurgling fountain). Everyone loves water; but it can also drown you.
When I became a mother, it was initially refreshing. And by “refreshing,” I mean I had to refresh my memory about everything I thought I had learned in my nine months of studying up on what to do with a baby. Because I actually knew nothing.
Squash newborn floppy head into a onesie? Not a clue. How to get baby spit-up stains out of favorite clothes? Just throw them in the trash, they’re ruined. What to do when infant screams all night for no apparent reason? Hold him, feed him, and invest in a really great set of Bose noise-reduction headphones.
I look around at all the beleaguered mommies at the pediatrician’s office. They are there to get shots and yearly check-ups for that sweet new life that society calls “child,” but they should beg for a nice little Vicodin or Percocet prescription for themselves while they happen to be in a medical facility.
Force. We do everything by force, of course. Force him to brush his teeth, force her to go to the bathroom, force them to do their homework, force him to apologize for inadvertently using a little too much, uh, force (that word again!) and leaving a nasty bruise when he kicked his brother's leg. The force is with us.
Motherhood is all about connections. Connections to distant family, connections by phone and email, connections with new neighbors and friends, connections to teachers, connections to the right toy store employee who always calls with a friendly reminder the day before a big sale.
I can be angry. Angry about not being listened to, angry about being ignored.
I can be calm, usually as the school bus pulls away and both my kids are on it. I feel beautiful turquoise waves of calm wash over me. This feeling last until 3:30.
I am happy (most of the time). Happy my sons are happy, happy they are healthy and smart and lucky.
Yet I drown. Daily. I am drowning in laundry, drowning in the experience of motherhood, drowning in the excessive paperwork required to be an accepted card-carrying “parent” (Social Security cards/ bank accounts/ immunization records/ macaroni artwork/ Target coupons/ library books/ Kindergarten class photos/ birthday party invitations/ magazine articles telling me how to do it all and have it all, yet the magazine never actually sends the assistant over to demonstrate), drowning in trying to fulfill everyone’s (society’s? my husband’s? my own?) unrealistic expectations.
But mostly I drown in love.
MOV
("My Ordinary Vision")
Showing posts with label motherhood essay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood essay. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
464. Motherhood Is Hypnotic
Hypnosis: An artificially induced state of relaxation and concentration in which deeper parts of the mind become more accessible: used clinically to reduce reaction to pain, to encourage free association, etc.
Seven and a half years ago, your naïve spouse drove you to the emergency room with an extra pillow, your favorite movies (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and National Lampoon’s Vacation), a digital camera, and a gender-neutral baby outfit, size: extra-tiny. Fourteen long hours later, you were officially a mother.
You have not relaxed since.
You didn’t relax that time one of your sons was balancing on the top of the TV cabinet. You didn’t relax when your other son catapulted down the playground slide head first. You forgot to relax when one of them (you forget which one now) was choking on carrots. You would’ve maybe relaxed that night last week when both of them fell asleep immediately after bedtime stories, except that one woke up an hour later with a fever and an earache.
Yep, if you want any hard-earned relaxation, it is artificially induced.
Motherhood requires concentration. You must concentrate while you make breakfast (three different variations for three different people), remember to change out the laundry, put gas in the car, pick up the dry cleaning, take the cat to the vet, feed your neighbor’s dog while they’re on vacation, call Visa to convert your mileage points, send your sister’s birthday present, pick up milk at the grocery store, sign up your older son for soccer camp, drive your younger son to music class, and oh, yeah—take a shower. Even one more thing added to your list could cause your brain to explode, or severe global warming.
You try to access deeper parts of your mind to ask the deeper questions, questions like
The only part of the motherhood equation that does not add up is the free association component. Oh, sure, you now associate with different people than you used to (pediatricians, teachers, toy store employees, Lego store managers, Baby Boutique proprietors, swimming coaches, babysitters, librarians, travel agents who have “Disney Specialist” printed on their business cards), but none of those associations are free. Your bank account continually hovers in the single digits due to the enrichment classes, toys, outfits, pool membership, insurance co-pays, and comic book subscriptions.
One quiet evening, your husband calls you over to the dining room table to witness the kids drawing contentedly (for once). They are engrossed in trying to copy Pokemon figures from their latest magazine. You look at their sweet little faces, and think:
Maybe childhood is hypnotic, too.
MOV
Seven and a half years ago, your naïve spouse drove you to the emergency room with an extra pillow, your favorite movies (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and National Lampoon’s Vacation), a digital camera, and a gender-neutral baby outfit, size: extra-tiny. Fourteen long hours later, you were officially a mother.
You have not relaxed since.
You didn’t relax that time one of your sons was balancing on the top of the TV cabinet. You didn’t relax when your other son catapulted down the playground slide head first. You forgot to relax when one of them (you forget which one now) was choking on carrots. You would’ve maybe relaxed that night last week when both of them fell asleep immediately after bedtime stories, except that one woke up an hour later with a fever and an earache.
Yep, if you want any hard-earned relaxation, it is artificially induced.
Motherhood requires concentration. You must concentrate while you make breakfast (three different variations for three different people), remember to change out the laundry, put gas in the car, pick up the dry cleaning, take the cat to the vet, feed your neighbor’s dog while they’re on vacation, call Visa to convert your mileage points, send your sister’s birthday present, pick up milk at the grocery store, sign up your older son for soccer camp, drive your younger son to music class, and oh, yeah—take a shower. Even one more thing added to your list could cause your brain to explode, or severe global warming.
You try to access deeper parts of your mind to ask the deeper questions, questions like
- What kind of childhood do you want for your kids?
- How can you raise them to be responsible human beings?
- How do you instill a genuine love of reading?
- If you friend your ex-boyfriend on Facebook, will your spouse get really mad or just shake his head and laugh?
The only part of the motherhood equation that does not add up is the free association component. Oh, sure, you now associate with different people than you used to (pediatricians, teachers, toy store employees, Lego store managers, Baby Boutique proprietors, swimming coaches, babysitters, librarians, travel agents who have “Disney Specialist” printed on their business cards), but none of those associations are free. Your bank account continually hovers in the single digits due to the enrichment classes, toys, outfits, pool membership, insurance co-pays, and comic book subscriptions.
One quiet evening, your husband calls you over to the dining room table to witness the kids drawing contentedly (for once). They are engrossed in trying to copy Pokemon figures from their latest magazine. You look at their sweet little faces, and think:
Maybe childhood is hypnotic, too.
MOV
Thursday, April 7, 2011
374. Motherhood is Un
Unacceptable, unintentional, uninspiring, unfashionable. This is not the vocabulary of a childless single person. But these are the letters that spell mommy.
My life is a swirl of things left undone. Time eludes me as I attempt to accomplish everything on my unglamorous and unrelenting “To Do” list. Items remain unwritten because the same nagging task will still be there tomorrow, and the day after that, and (who are we kidding?) until next September.
Unmade beds, unwashed dishes, undone laundry, unclean bathrooms—for starters. My house will, unfortunately, never be mistaken for an advertisement for Comet or Windex (unless it is the cringe-inducing “Before” photo). Our front entry is littered with unopened mail and unreturned library books. As I type this, unanswered emails flash at me, begging for attention. I trip over un-put-away toys when I walk to the bathroom to look in the unpolished mirror. I try to assess exactly how bad my un-showered self looks (with un-brushed hair, natch). Bad. Un-good.
I go around the house, doing the necessary chores and pretending that the house won’t morph back into this unkempt, unruly state in approximately 24 hours. I’m making unprecedented strides and the house is reacting uncertainly to my unleashed zeal (I overhear the kitchen door mumble to the stove, “I don’t understand; this is so unusual … has she come unglued?”). And the bonus of the unexpected: I’m no longer unhappy, because my uncontainable enthusiasm is undeniable!
Just now, my freighbor brings Tall and Short home from a playdate. Both boys simultaneously lean in toward me to give a big bear hug, almost tipping me over.
Ah, my favorite “un.” Unconditional love.
MOV
My life is a swirl of things left undone. Time eludes me as I attempt to accomplish everything on my unglamorous and unrelenting “To Do” list. Items remain unwritten because the same nagging task will still be there tomorrow, and the day after that, and (who are we kidding?) until next September.
Unmade beds, unwashed dishes, undone laundry, unclean bathrooms—for starters. My house will, unfortunately, never be mistaken for an advertisement for Comet or Windex (unless it is the cringe-inducing “Before” photo). Our front entry is littered with unopened mail and unreturned library books. As I type this, unanswered emails flash at me, begging for attention. I trip over un-put-away toys when I walk to the bathroom to look in the unpolished mirror. I try to assess exactly how bad my un-showered self looks (with un-brushed hair, natch). Bad. Un-good.
I go around the house, doing the necessary chores and pretending that the house won’t morph back into this unkempt, unruly state in approximately 24 hours. I’m making unprecedented strides and the house is reacting uncertainly to my unleashed zeal (I overhear the kitchen door mumble to the stove, “I don’t understand; this is so unusual … has she come unglued?”). And the bonus of the unexpected: I’m no longer unhappy, because my uncontainable enthusiasm is undeniable!
Just now, my freighbor brings Tall and Short home from a playdate. Both boys simultaneously lean in toward me to give a big bear hug, almost tipping me over.
Ah, my favorite “un.” Unconditional love.
MOV
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