A predictable Halloween costume.
The only way to describe motherhood.
“I’m a tired mother for Halloween this year.”
When did I become so predictable?
To think I almost posted a selfie with this as the caption — who was I?
I’ve been writing this piece for a week now. I started it as the sun was rising, 7 days ago. Now, that same sun is making its way behind the naked trees, casting an auburn glow on the crisp corpses of the once vivid leaves left on the branches, slowly gripping onto the last little bit of what they’re rooted to.
Although scattered and goldfish brained, I am a human of ritual. A human who craves to start and end her days the same way, repeatedly and continuously. Having a child has both exemplified that and rocked it to its core.
I’ve heard that some women become super in touch with their intuition and awakenings when they become pregnant, I on the other hand don’t feel like a sentient being at all. Instead, I feel like a shell of my former magical self as I glance at the dust that’s settled on my altar and a lump in my gut begins to form as I recognize the detachment and disconnection from the books that line my shelves.
Maybe this is that new version that I’ve been talking about.
Maybe I’m just growing out of old beliefs and into new ones.
Maybe I’ll never really know.
You do your best to remind yourself that everything passes while you stress scrub the sink in the same flannel you’ve been wearing for days, maybe even weeks, you can't remember, but you do know that the last time you washed your hair, it happened so quickly that you forgot to rinse the shampoo out of it.
That sun, the one weeks from now you’ll be writing with, begins its grand rising, casting an ominously hopeful glow just below the tree line. The clock reads 5:23am and the anxiousness in your gut begins to dissipate as you realize the rest of the world will start to wake up soon.
Your boobs are leaking. Your hands and arms are scabbed over with an eczema flare up, itching to no end. You’re depleted from nourishment, sleep, and even some of your sanity. You’re dripping bodily fluids that could mirror a crime scene and you have no choice but to endure it, literally no option but to observe and feel and move through this foreign transformation.
In my short time as a mother, so far I’ve realized one of the hardest parts is not having the luxury to regulate my nervous system after some type of emotional shake up.
You have a random realize the dogs are getting old after an unexpected spill — keep going.
There’s a mass casualty war going on across the globe — keep going.
Your god damn student loan payments are messed up again — keep going.
You must constantly be on.
You are continually needed.
You are the sole source of life for this tiny, magnificent creature.
And it’s exhausting to the bone, but it’s a right of passage none the less.
There are days where I feel like I’m spinning on the edge of a thread, others, I’ve never been more grounded in my own existence.
Tethered and tightened, fluent and flowing.
“How’s motherhood?” I’ve been asked more times than I can count.
“Wild.” I answer. “Wild.”
**Some of this piece was written when I was only weeks into my postpartum journey.