That Motherhood Instinct

Motherhood.

The call to it came early for me. And I’m not entirely sure what the impetus was. Whether I wanted so badly to be a mother because at the time society still revered it? Or whether it was my intrinsic, innate survival instinct to procreate?

But I certainly had more than enough time to sufficiently set my fixation on it.

And when it came...boy howdy, babies are like way better than the best drug I ever tried (theoretically, of course, for my kids who may one day read this).

But now my kids aren’t babies anymore and my withdrawaling mind wanders to thoughts of how I got here, to my most coveted spot on the pedestal that I held in such high regard for so long?

I’ve written before about my struggles to even so much as like myself (update: the struggle endures). And now I have two genetic copies of me to face on the daily. How did I ever have the audacity to want to recreate myself, this person whom I still have difficulty not, you know, harboring a deep sense of loathing towards?

I’m confident that most some of it stemmed from an ego developed in my teens (of course) - that I could do it better. Give more, encourage more, allow more, say “yes” more (lol!). Let my kids become instead of forcing them into ill-fitting, society-approved, security-assured boxes.

But there were so many red flags along the way. And I assumed that because I had my doubts, or put conditions on when it was OK to have kids, that maybe it made me more qualified for the job. Because I was, you know, thoughtful about it.

And what I’ve found in practice is that I had zero actual concept of what it takes to be a mother.

Sure, sure. I’m not a bad mom. My kids are housed and clothed and fed and loved. And, sure, sure, that makes me a good mom.

So why do I still constantly feel like such an abject failure at motherhood?

Maybe it’s because there are these two externally viable pieces of me running around and, as much as I love them, I wonder if I fully do. Because they are me. And like some mad scientist, I made more of me to harbor a deep sense of loathing towards. And if I can’t fully love the me that’s contained in this one body I was given at birth how could I possibly begin to love those two little people as much as they deserve to be loved?

Perhaps that’s the answer: knowing that they deserve better love than I give myself. And someday, because I have loved them better, I will love myself better, too.

When October Goes

I was in Ulta earlier this week when I realized: it's October.

Not just October, but, you know, OCTOBER. The pink ribbon wearing, socially conscious and evolved, cause-marketing machine October.

I went about my business, stood in line, and towards the end of the transaction was asked: would you like to round up your total to donate to the BCRF? YES/NO.

You guys, I saw pink. And not just because the whole fucking store has been pinkwashed to mark the occasion.

It took all I had to not give my proverbial middle finger to the corporate machine by indignantly telling the poor girl just trying to work the cash wrap that I have given enough to breast cancer research this year when six months ago one of my best friends died from it, while choking back the tears wishing I could have done more, given more, anything more so she would still be alive.

Instead, I quietly picked up the stylus to respond to the touch screen in the negative, paid for my purchases, and went about my day, albeit a fuck-ton more aware of the void.

It used to be that I didn't mind Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In fact, I wanted all the pink NFL gear and pink ribbon leggings and someday I would do this run or that walk or some other thing that there was to offer to the cause.

You see, I am also the daughter of a Stage 3 breast cancer survivor. When my mom was going through her surgery, recovery, and treatments, I was back living at home, between bar exams, surfing various temp jobs, and making sure that she, the queen of overdoing it, didn't in fact overdo it. Because she absolutely would have.

I've been on the front lines of this breast cancer bullshit and I cannot quite get right about the commodification of curing it. It should have been enough already, but it didn't do enough to save my friend earlier this year.

So yeah. I apologize, October. It's not you, it's definitely me. We'll try this again next year, I'm sure. But until then, I will not be sad to see you and your bubblegum pink halo effect in the rear view this time around.