What will my children say I cared about?
On a day like today, at least one of them (the young one—the middle school boy) would say I care about being on time to appointments and not saying “suck balls” in public. My oldest would probably tell you I have an obsession with bra straps staying tucked in and an unnatural predisposition with what’s put on the kitchen island. (The correct amount of things is: zero. Nothing should ever be put on the kitchen island. Pretend it does not exist.)
I don’t really actually care all that much about those things, though. Those are just obsessive little crutches that help me deal with my anxieties by exploding them outward onto those I love the most. I do care about my kids becoming compassionate and caring citizens, but I’m not sure they see that reflected in how much I hate wordplay about the number 69 and the fact that leggings are not now and have never, ever been pants. What I’m saying is that I’m not sure I’m focusing on the right things most of the time. Or: I put so much emphasis on individual trees that the general forest of “be kind, help others, fight for the underdog” has been replaced by “take a shower, pack your bookbag, where even is your toothbrush.”
The tyranny of motherhood is in the details.
The tyranny of motherhood as I’m living it at the moment is the fact that I’m not only spread too thin, I’m actually invisible. I’m working, and yes it’s part-time, but I’m in school, and yes I’m good at school, but it takes up time, and my kids need my time, and my husband might get five minutes of me grumping at him in granny panties every other week. (Hello, let’s date, let’s marry, let’s have kids, maybe I’ll hang out with you again if we ever retire. Please don’t divorce me because you carry the health insurance. I hope a laugh over occasional taco night is enough physical contact; isn’t the queso orgasmic enough?)
The things I care about sometimes seem so far away. I live my life like a passenger on a bullet train, peering out the window at quiet tea time with my grandmother and time to read books about the dangers of totalitarianism and the ability to write more than a few paragraphs without falling asleep at the keyboard. Why am I on this train? Put me down at a kitchen table. Why am I going so fast? Let me read Yehuda Bauer and Hannah Arendt and connect the underpinnings of right-wing nationalism to the real reasons why book banning scares me so much. I care deeply about intellectual freedom but spend more time on things like Instagram and clearing off my kitchen counters. Why do I keep all these plates in the air when I don’t want to wash and put away so many goddamn plates to begin with?
The tyranny of motherhood is living my life in these ridiculous fractions. Show me a woman who has learned to slow down. Show me a woman whose kids would say “she taught me to listen to the wind and smell the flowers and yes, to wash under my arms, at least now and again.” Show me a woman who grandmothers herself in her middle-age present instead of waiting until she’s old and half-dead herself to take fifteen minutes to sit down and think.
What do my kids think I think is important? Would they know to put themselves on the list?
1st image : A tarnished silver teapot sits alone. Credit: "Everyday holiday" by Malicious Fairy ,licensed under CC BY 2.0.
2nd image: A stretch of paved highway with a sign that says North 62/ To route 58: 4 miles/ Danville: 11 miles. Credit: "View north along Virginia State Route 62" by Famartin, licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0.
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