Recently, I gobbled up a long form essay in Vela by Rufi Thorpe called Mother, Writer, Monster, Maid. In it, there were shades of Elisa Albert’s After Birth, which to me, was the first honest published writing about motherhood since Salon’s now-defunct Mothers Who Think.
I have no commentary as of late; I’m just tired. I’ve retreated into reading, listening to Sinatra, baking chocolate chip cookies, playing endless games of Trouble and picking up my husband’s errant socks. Take the time to consume Thorpe’s piece and you will see that’s ok. Motherhood is stuffed full of so many dichotomies: the love/the hate, the heartbroken/the joy, the bored/the interesting. I’ve never figured it out; it is just a messy stew of boomeranged emotions.
As I embark on my 24th year of mothering, there’s no pause in sight – my youngest son, a teenager but not, needs me more, not less. His disability adds a fine net of complexity over everything, like a soft mist setting on a shiny day. I achingly miss my older two children, but they are not here. Most worrisome is my eldest son, who lives in America, a country imploding into a boiling rage.
So much is out of my serenity prayer – what I can control and what I cannot – that I hunker down to search for peace in my heart. That, and methodically climbing through green prickly forests in open-toed sandals searching for good sticks and logs that look like alligators is all that I can possibly do.