An old friend used to say that to me. Whatever
in the hell that means...
So here I am. Mother to three.
In the next two months, they turn 7, 2 and 5 - in that order.
I turn 38 in between the 2 and the 5.
Being a mother and a wife makes me miss the days when I was just me. An entity unto myself. Yes, I feel selfish hearing that come from me. And the irony of it is I can't even remember what that felt like - being my own person. Yes, I have memories of my past. Of course I do. But from the moment my first child was born, I ceased to remember what it felt like to not be a mother. The part of me that existed in the singular was gone. My whole inner compass shifted. And this is not a bad thing. Not at all; Just how it is - for me.
There was a picture taken of me right after Samantha was born. Very few people have ever seen this photo. It is so personal and intimate; I actually find it difficult to share it with anyone. And for me to not share something about myself, that's pretty unusual. It was taken by my mother in the delivery room. My husband had just placed our daughter in my arms for the first time. I am sobbing as I cradle my precious baby girl. That’s it - just a mother holding a swaddled newborn. And crying.
But when I look at that picture, I can still feel that exact raw emotion in my soul. The awe at the birth I had just participated in. the admiration of this new creature. The relief at ten fingers and ten toes. The gratitude. The joy. The unbelievable love and that fierce sense of protection mother bears have for their cubs.
It’s the first picture of the new me. The mother me.
So every now and then I go searching for the woman I think I am now. Or more accurately, the woman I think I should be.
And am I really a woman?
Already?
I feel more like a girl.
I inadvertently deceive myself into believing I can separate the different personas that inhabit this body.
~ woman ~ daughter ~ sister ~ wife ~ mother ~ girlfriend ~ woman ~
I attempt to compartmentalize the roles I play. Then I try to define myself. Most often I lose myself in the ebb and flow of everyday banalities.
And then I feel adrift. As I do now. Trying to make sense of the mundane details.
I do not think myself special or unique in this dissection of self. I think all women do battle with expectations, dreams, labels, responsibilities, fantasies, reality...
perhaps men have the same battles.
I can only speak to what I know is true for me as a woman.
So what are my truths? Where does my reality lie? How do I define myself?
I am conviction. I am indecision.
I am strength. I am fragile.
I am perfect. I am fallible.
I am coarse. I am feminine.
I am intellect. I am emotion.
I am a woman
I am indefinable
So here I am. Mother to three.
In the next two months, they turn 7, 2 and 5 - in that order.
I turn 38 in between the 2 and the 5.
Being a mother and a wife makes me miss the days when I was just me. An entity unto myself. Yes, I feel selfish hearing that come from me. And the irony of it is I can't even remember what that felt like - being my own person. Yes, I have memories of my past. Of course I do. But from the moment my first child was born, I ceased to remember what it felt like to not be a mother. The part of me that existed in the singular was gone. My whole inner compass shifted. And this is not a bad thing. Not at all; Just how it is - for me.
There was a picture taken of me right after Samantha was born. Very few people have ever seen this photo. It is so personal and intimate; I actually find it difficult to share it with anyone. And for me to not share something about myself, that's pretty unusual. It was taken by my mother in the delivery room. My husband had just placed our daughter in my arms for the first time. I am sobbing as I cradle my precious baby girl. That’s it - just a mother holding a swaddled newborn. And crying.
But when I look at that picture, I can still feel that exact raw emotion in my soul. The awe at the birth I had just participated in. the admiration of this new creature. The relief at ten fingers and ten toes. The gratitude. The joy. The unbelievable love and that fierce sense of protection mother bears have for their cubs.
It’s the first picture of the new me. The mother me.
So every now and then I go searching for the woman I think I am now. Or more accurately, the woman I think I should be.
And am I really a woman?
Already?
I feel more like a girl.
I inadvertently deceive myself into believing I can separate the different personas that inhabit this body.
~ woman ~ daughter ~ sister ~ wife ~ mother ~ girlfriend ~ woman ~
I attempt to compartmentalize the roles I play. Then I try to define myself. Most often I lose myself in the ebb and flow of everyday banalities.
And then I feel adrift. As I do now. Trying to make sense of the mundane details.
I do not think myself special or unique in this dissection of self. I think all women do battle with expectations, dreams, labels, responsibilities, fantasies, reality...
perhaps men have the same battles.
I can only speak to what I know is true for me as a woman.
So what are my truths? Where does my reality lie? How do I define myself?
I am conviction. I am indecision.
I am strength. I am fragile.
I am perfect. I am fallible.
I am coarse. I am feminine.
I am intellect. I am emotion.
I am a woman
I am indefinable
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