(Very) Belated Mother Day Thoughts

It recently occurred to me: I have no photos of myself during my pregnancy or the first year of my daughter’s life. This strikes me as so sad, not because I missed out on the photo opportunity, but because it’s evidence of the self loathing I felt at the time.

Motherhood for me has always been a sort of a struggle. It’s not something that I would say comes easily. Most of the time, it isn’t that easy for me to enjoy. Motherhood, for me, came with a sense of loss. And a sense of obligation. With that came anxiety. Sometimes I feel like I am incapable of loving my daughter fully, because that would require a capacity for loss that I just don’t have. Love and loss being two sides of the same coin. Maybe that’s because I run towards pessimism. I think about these things too much.

When my daughter was born, it was awful. The experience of being in the hospital, plied with drugs, reeling from the complications of those drugs, being plied with more drugs to address those complications, all the while being treated like a problem and a liability by the medical professionals whose job, I thought, was to protect me. . . I’m not trying to rant about how the medical profession treats women (though I’ve got plenty to say about it), but rather how this experience was a telling frame for how motherhood would start for me. A lonely, wild sort of feeling. One marked by a painful awareness of how fragile everything is.

I say all this because I don’t think women talk about it enough. It’s just joy and blessings, and I-wouldn’t-change-it-for-anything-in-the-world generalizations and glosses. Maybe the occasional complaint about lack of sleep or free time. But it’s almost sacrilege to discuss pain and loss in regards to motherhood. You can’t even say that sometimes the world feels like an unsafe place and it feels almost stupid to bring another kid into that. You can’t speak of the heavy, heavy weight of all that responsibility.

Without the platitudes, can we just talk about it? Just to sit honestly with our fears for a little while?

After my daughter was born, I tried to speak about my experiences of fear, anxiety, terror. All these little griefs. And I was told just to be grateful, that “all’s well that ends well,” as if speaking of my pain would … what? Tempt fate? Anger god? Make people uncomfortable, most likely. But result of this silence was only to feel more isolated and shamed for feeling complicated feelings. To any other mothers out there dealing with their feelings: This life is not a box that you need to neatly fit yourself in. There’s much more space in this world than that.

Me in a Nutshell, part 1

I’m a stay-at-home mom. I used to be a lawyer, though not a particularly good one, and not for very long. I quit because I found it to be an intolerable combination of boring and stressful. I’ve experienced some side eye and, a few times, outright judgment for leaving my “career,” and I never know how to answer questions about when I’m going back to work. Truth is, I don’t want to go back. I’ve never felt like the workforce, that monolithic, sinister entity, did me any favors. Its frequent attempts to thicken my skin never really took. I’m still too sensitive. I don’t bounce back. All it ever did was wear me down, fuel my depression and anxiety. I don’t know how to explain my experience adaquately, so that you would understand. It felt like choking. Even when the work itself was meaningful, even perhaps important, I was always, essentially, separate from it. It was never, ever about me, and if I wasn’t there, someone else would do it. It was a powerless, impotent feeling. I think this is by design. If you’re broken down and tired, you’re less likely to fight back.

So, I bowed out as soon as I could, or rather, after I felt I had a good enough reason. I had a baby. Yet I still feel weird about cashing in on our gendered institutions to procure my freedom. Now, if I were a man, I could stay at home easily, without judgment or regret. In fact, I’d be a trendsetter, I’d be sticking it to the Capital-M Man. As it stands, I sort of work for him instead. I’m fulfilling the dismal promise of the 1950s, taking care of children and shiny appliances. Still, I try to be subversive when I can.

One of my main goals as a mother is to shield my daughter from the destructive influence of gender essentialism. Our society has a vested interest in accentuating any inherent differences between men and women to reinforce the gender binary. I think many people underestimate how deeply and tightly held these sorts of gendered beliefs are. Gendered gifts, gendered comments and observations, started for my daughter in her infancy. Well-intentioned (I suppose?) strangers continue to comment on her cute clothes, call her princess, tell her to smile. It’s inundating. From her earliest moments, she’s received these not-so-subtle hints from society about how she should be and what she should focus on. I try to balance the scales by giving her options and alternatives. And I try to create the space for her to forge her own path. This feels, to me, productive and powerful, even in its small scope.

But sometimes I wonder, will my daughter think less of me, when she grows up? Because of the decisions I’ve made? Because of how I spent my life?