Nine Months: In Search of Self

Being a mother is sort of like signing up for being kidnapped in your sleep and put into an escape room in which you wake up, disoriented and exhausted, and the key you’re trying to find is a clear concept of who you are. And actually, the escape room is huge, and there are many doors. So you open one, and you step out into going for a walk for the first time since giving birth. But you’re not back in your life yet. And then you find the next key and you step out into having lunch with your friends again, but there are still more doors and more keys. Then you step into your first road trip, your first thunderstorm, your first date as parents, your first time reading a novel for an uninterrupted hour. 

Bit by bit, you find pieces of yourself that you forgot about; only this time, you’ve got a baby in your arms. You know you must remember, for your sake and for hers, and yet the mirror keeps showing you some other person you’re not quite sure about yet. Sometimes I look at photos of myself from a far away year like 2019, and I think, “Who the fuck is that?” I recognize her, I know her like I know the way home, but I can’t always find her. 

It gets a little easier, as I find more keys. 

A few days ago, on a rainy morning, baby took a long nap on her own. Her father worked on the van, podcast droning. I did asana/pranayama practice on the back porch, fat summer raindrops clattering on the tin roof, thunder rumbling in the distance. 

In this way, we reclaim little bits of ourselves, repurposing them for this new life. 

As she rounds out nine months and moves ever more quickly toward ten, she takes on some big primate energy - clinging to our chests, leaning her head against our shoulders, tapping her forehead to ours. It is my intention to offer more affection than she’s asking for - to make it seem as though the cup can never run dry and there is always plenty for her to drink from. There is no time limit and there is no asking too much, when it comes to demonstrations of maternal love. 

That’s what I want to do. 

It isn’t always perfect - sometimes I am overstimulated and burnt out, and in those moments, I behave very much like a nine month old who needs a hug (but also don’t touch meeee). The other morning, her father hovered over her while I was putting her pants on, and she cried to be picked up by him, flailing her arms and legs, making my task impossible. “Great! No pants!” I snapped, flinging her pants into the laundry basket. My mother was there beside me, and she put her arm around me. I wanted to cry, but sighed instead, “No pants is fine.”

And truly, no pants is fine. But what is anger except our needs and desires frustrated? I had a task - put on the pants. Baby had a task - get picked up by daddy. We were both frustrated. My task was less important, in this scenario. 

There seem to be so many tasks. 

Some of them are keys to be found. Some of them are meaningless. Some of them mean everything. 

Sometimes I find parts of myself that don’t seem to fit anymore, like the cranky and entitled kid. I could still squeeze into that outfit before, though it was ill-fitting for me, but now it might as well be clown shoes. Some of these parts will never fit again. Some of these parts I have not discovered yet, but they will be well made and elegant, and I will grow into them. It’s a reminder to slow down, and don’t stop looking. There is no rush, and don’t give up. 

And fill the cup over and over again, because your daughter is thirsty. And it is so important that she be able to drink.