Maaaami

I recently read a chapter in Tiny Beautiful Things that made me weep almost uncontrollably in my rocking recliner.  The chapter publishes a letter from a father who lost his 21-year-old son to a horrific car accident - hit by a drunk driver.  This father lives on but finds himself feeling dead.  In this letter he captured his overwhelming grief.  The grief he had been experiencing was so disorganised, so thorough, so deep, so controlling, and so heavy that he could not write the letter as a letter - he had to list his thoughts, one number after another.  I don't know what it is exactly, but this list - 1., 2., 3., 4... - really brought out this indescribable pain and sadness. I cannot say I understand that grief and that pain - everyone's pain is different - but I understand the inability to articulate.  It is not so much the typical 'inability' of not being able to do it because of a lack of skill or means, but the type of 'inability' that is from a deeper...

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to live simply.  This came to me because over time I've realized more and more that I am not an ambitious person.  To some extent I always knew this about me, but I didn't really know what it meant.  When I think about how 'un-ambitious' I am, I immediately go to the fact that I don't really have any dreams.  There's nothing I can think of that I would want to achieve before I die; in other words, if I die tomorrow, that's okay and I wouldn't look back and think, "Should have done that."  This is odd to be honest, considering the fact that I have a 1-year-old.  There must be a lot I want to do, right?  A lot I want to experience, achieve, or accomplish before I die?  But no - I genuinely have no issues with dying tomorrow.  The more I think about it, the more I'm seeing how I find goals and dreams unsatisfying.  Instead, I much prefer living a simple, honest life.  I've come to ...

A new friend recently asked me what it feels like to be a mother, and an old friend at around the same time asked me how I'm coping.  To the first question, my immediate reaction was - "motherhood is messy".  To the second question, I realized 'coping' is exactly where I am - I'm not thriving, I'm coping.  And so, motherhood is messy coping.  What does that mean, messy coping?  It's trying your best to focus on one thing at a time.  It's blocking out the crying and wailing when that helps you get that diaper change done or properly wipe that cracker-stained T-shirt.  It's accepting that nothing ever goes to plan and you just have to squeeze out whatever is left of a schedule.  It's focusing on picking up the scattered pieces rather than try to preserve the whole, finished puzzle.  It's being okay with delaying your own recovery time, promising yourself that you will get to it.  And as my husband would say, it's doing things to 80% b...

Have to write this down before I forget:  "Old McDonald had a poo, E I E I O And in his poo he had some bits, E I E I O With an [orange] here and a [corn bit] there Fruit here veg there, everywhere food bits  Old McDonald had a poo, E I E I O" Singing this keeps baby properly distracted during diaper changes so we can actually get shit done.  And honestly it entertains us as well, as we deal with real-life poo bits.  It's not always possible, but where/when possible I remind myself to be a child when with Maya so that I can have just as much fun as she's having.

I've recently come up with a new daily schedule because J and I came to conclude that my not working and not having externally-imposed structure really throws me off.  So we decided it would be helpful for me to come up with a schedule based on things I want to achieve.  Day 2 today - mixed feelings.  I definitely feel a greater sense of self because I am taking time to do things for me, intentionally, and that is so easy to skip past when you're a mami.  At the same time, setting these time slots means I naturally feel lousy when I fail to start at the expected start time.  (And just writing this shows me the vocabulary I use to judge myself - 'fail', 'expected'.)  I've been having terrible headaches for the past week, so today I started my morning activity 45 mins late (and actually yesterday I started my exercise session 40 mins late too); I needed to lie down, but it all just feels like an excuse.  How do I learn to become more flexible, and feel a...

Recently had an epiphany as to how many thoughts we work through on a daily basis - or more specifically, just constantly, all the time.  Every moment it's a bit of a battle.  Is it a battle for everyone?  When we allow all of our thoughts the space it wants, does that mean we will be unbearably exhausted?  I feel like every thought is answered by another and then another and then another - when do we get a breather?  So every day I'm processing processing processing constantly, to come up with some sort of state of being.  Sometimes we lose this battle (whatever that means), and sometimes we prevail.  I suppose win or lose depends on what you're looking to achieve.  Who do you want to be in that moment?  And in a broader sense as well I suppose.  Remember to pick the thought that doesn't give you a headache. 

I cry because sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.  My mind is always a mess and there’s just so much constantly filling it up, that there isn’t really a safe space (and safe time) for me to just feel…safe.  I constantly feel like my bucket of existence is full – partly with joy and laughter and life, but also with pressure and obligations and tension.  All of it together in my bucket of existence leaves me no space to just curl up and be.  I just wish my to-do list can for once be empty.  But I can’t just erase what I have on my to-do list; I have to finish these things and empty the list before I can reach that ‘empty’ goal I have.  But the list keeps growing, and it feels like it will never empty, and I will never breathe again.

Before I had Maya, I had an image of motherhood that involved a lot of cuddling, co-dependence, good conversations, and love.   I believed that it would be love that is irreplaceable and indescribable.   I imagined that I would birth my child, feel a rush of goosebumps because I’m so overwhelmed by the emotions, then I would be changed.   Suddenly I would become a mother, and motherhood would properly begin, and it would all be new and fresh. Maya is 10 weeks tomorrow, and I’m still waiting on those goosebumps. Motherhood has started – that’s undeniable.   It started with that positive pregnancy test.   It started with the previous pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage.   Motherhood is a concept, a thought, and an uncontrollable bubble filled with imagined images.   Motherhood, in a way, isn’t real.   Or so that’s how I feel.   I feel like everything I had been feeling about motherhood before I gave birth to Maya isn’t real, because I hav...