I have been informed in no uncertain terms, over the years, that it is unseemly at best, the way I gripe about the daily clatterbang-in-the-ear that is the reality of childrearing. Particularly the stay-at-home variety. You wanted this more than anything in the world, I've been told. And now all you do is complain about it.
Or more pointed: You remember what it was like to want this reality so desperately you would shoot your body full of mare's urine and blow up your ovaries like Jiffy Pop -- and you have the audacity to complain? Other people can read this, you know. The walking wounded with Jiffy Pop ovaries and no carseats full of fishy crackers. A windwhistling gap in the heart.
I know. I know.
I do remember, you know. What that was like, living with my head somewhere detached from the earthly plane, lost in the what-if. How it blurred everything I did, the fuzz of grief, like a migraine in its infancy. The multithreaded timelines for each possibility: if the first baby had lived, if the second had, if I got pregnant now, if we had the home study a month from today. Wanting to take all the unknowns in hand and press them into a shape I could at least recognize.
I keep that with me, that time, a little rock in my pocket to reach in and feel. A weight light to carry hidden, solid enough that I don't forget it.
Here's the thing though: that little rock, it isn't magic. I can't brandish it at the children when they're abrading my last taut nerve and transform them; hell, I can't even transform myself with it. It does what it does, which is to sit tucked away, providing ballast; but it doesn't change the moments, either joyous or difficult.
It made me notice the little pebbles other people are carrying around, though. I can sense the heft of another person's pain. I wouldn't trade that for lighter pockets.
But I can't carry someone else's pebbles. You carry your own, I carry mine. Some people won't be able to read about the ugliness inside my mothering, and that's all right. We know our own boundaries. We keep ourselves safe.
Here's the other thing: this part of mothering, the constant aggravation tempered by (and sometimes made the worse for) moments of incomparable sweetness, the noise and the clutter and the brain-static that I can't shake off even in a rare moment of quiet -- I knew this was coming. Hell, I'd read enough Erma Bombeck to know what was in store for me.
And this was exactly what I wanted. This mess, this chaos, this panic of needing aloneness and never quite being able to get it -- the hilarity, the impossible stories, the silliness -- this is what I wanted. The struggle of figuring out how to handle a child's first attempts at lying, of helping a tiny person get a handle on big feelings. All this.
If nothing else, daily interaction with small children is great for comedy material. Dark comedy. Very dark.
It's not accurate to say that no one talks about this part of mothering; it might be true, though, that nobody understands it until they're in it, and then the depth of understanding defies words. I don't know if it changes much to talk about it, like this -- but I do know that if I don't talk about it, I'll die.
Keep talking. Makes the pebbles feel less like glacial boulders.
Posted by: Joanna Brichetto | January 23, 2012 at 11:02 AM
Thank you for admitting to the "constant aggravation." I know exactly what you mean and have often wondered if I'm just a really shitty person/mother. I read this the other day and found it comforting: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/glennon-melton/dont-carpe-diem_b_1206346.html?ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false Oh, and it's great to have you "back"!!!
Posted by: Mandy | January 23, 2012 at 11:53 AM
I see a physical therapist once a week to alleviate the massive knots in my shoulders, back and neck that come from my work and the daily labors of my two crazy magic rocks known as Lauren and Veronica. My therapist is in the middle of her own nightmare of infertility. The shots, the failed IVFs, the procedures, the canceled procedures, the inconclusive procedures. I feel like an ass when I explain that the giant knot she worked hard to unkink last week is back because I had to spend the night in a cramped position because the baby wouldn't sleep in her crib. I am grateful for that cramped position because of who and what it means, but it doesn't negate the physical pain that I am going through. It does make me think of how I phrase my statements, though I fail sometimes.
And then there was the asshole moment when I grabbed the nearest clean shirt so I could barely make it to the appt (it's at 7:20am), only to discover it was a "Charmed Mom" tshirt. I felt like the biggest jackass that entire appointment. There are open wounds everywhere, more than people even discuss. I will never forget the pain I went through during the 6+ years of miscarriage hell, and I never want to inflict the pain I got from those who weren't "in the know". However, it's something that is hard to avoid when you are down a certain path in life. Motherhood is not all roses and candy canes, and I'm sure (as I knew) that people with the open wounds know that. It's a delicate balance.
Posted by: Melissa the Morrow | January 23, 2012 at 11:57 AM
The following has been said elsewhere better, but: it would be insult to injury if, after not being able to have kids easily the way so many others do, we were also not allowed to complain about how fucking annoying and hard it is to have children - the way so many others get to do. What, it's only okay to talk this way if you had an unplanned pregnancy? What kind of bullshit is that? Or is it not okay to talk this way EVER? In which case, forget the whole enterprise of being human, if you ask me.
And you know what? When I was trying to get pregnant, it made me feel BETTER to read about how hard having kids is. I made sure to savor every moment of my child-free life I could, and that really helped get me through.
No guilt, please.
Posted by: DoctorMama | January 23, 2012 at 12:03 PM
Also: your "About" link still has an Out of Office message.
Posted by: DoctorMama | January 23, 2012 at 12:28 PM
First - I'm so glad to see you back, and glad that I kept you in my rss feeds. Your previous post described pretty much exactly my every meal time and it was golden relief to share that with you, even just in my head. I too am an ivf veteran and I would love you to keep writing.
Posted by: Sabdha | January 23, 2012 at 06:03 PM
Welcome back, Jo. I have had that meal also, and totally understand that it is both bitter and sweet at the same time.
Posted by: Sara | January 23, 2012 at 06:12 PM
Yes. That is all!
Posted by: Claire | January 23, 2012 at 06:30 PM
Great post, I'll try to comment more later (with a link).
P.S. and, before I forget, I almost cried with the last words of your inaugural post coming back... will go there and comment later.
Posted by: Lilian | January 23, 2012 at 10:22 PM
fantastic.
Posted by: kate | January 23, 2012 at 11:23 PM
Absofrickinlutely! So glad you are back.
Posted by: Sue | January 24, 2012 at 12:36 PM
Thank you for writing this. It is so hard to bear the guilt I feel sometimes for how hard I worked for this, and how hard I find it. And yes, the struggles doesn't, and shouldn't erase the pain in the ass nature of mothering, but it does make the moments of gratefulness very intense. I'll never be a mother who didn't struggle to have her family, so I won't compare my pleasure or pain to theirs, but I do know the constant companion to my sense of overwhelm is guilt. Sigh.
Posted by: Sarah | January 24, 2012 at 03:40 PM
To a much lesser degree: does the fact that my kid eats tomatoes and raw spinach willingly make it so that I am not allowed to complain when she is rude about other things I cook?
No, I do not think so. I can appreciate her and also find her trying. I wanted her (and did not have to work hard to get her) and love her desperately and also she wears me down sometimes.
Posted by: Davida | January 25, 2012 at 12:01 AM
I like the pebble analogy. I always feel like mine is the aching, sore gap left after a rotten tooth. It hurts like hell when I probe it, but I do it anyway. There are people walking around with mind shattering tooth aches right now, but I still have the hole...and if I poke it, it still hurts like hell.
The fact that I had to endure jiffy pop ovaries to have my daughter does not make the fact that she will NOT POOP IN THE POTTY at 3 years old any easier to bear. Nor does it make my recent miscarriage any easier to take. I bought another ticket for the pain train, I shouldn't be bitching about it. But I am anyway. So there.
Posted by: Chickenpig | January 26, 2012 at 10:44 AM
Sing it, sister.
Posted by: chartreuse velour | February 19, 2012 at 03:47 PM