Postscript: I wrote this years ago. I went to write a post responding to a prompt that referenced a story within, and realized it’s been in my drafts all along.

As with a poem about relational tension and an essay about when to scrap an unfinished painting I shared earlier in the year, I’ve decided that “old” work should either be scrapped, repurposed or shared.

This year Mother’s Day lands on the same day as my son’s birthday.

I’m never not thinking about being a mother. Other aspects of my identity are well developed, but with intention to ensure that I have a sense of self outside of my role as a caretaker. It’s easy to fall into the trap of overemphasizing one facet of your identity: I see it in all the “Mama” themed t-shirts and trucker hats, using up limited characters in an Instagram bio to assure people that you are responsible for the lives of other humans. I see it, too, a child gains independence while his mother loses a sense of identity.

old beliefs about being a full-time mom

I grappled for a long time about being a stay-at-home mom. Growing up as a feminist in the ’90s didn’t lend itself to encouraging girls to find satisfaction in caring for the home and family. The narrative was instead: care for the home and family, wear a pantsuit, have a high-profile career, a glamorous social life, make it to all your kids’ sporting events, volunteer, be a saint, be sexy, do it all, have it all. I grew up with a single mom, and being a housewife was for the sitcoms of yesteryear.

When I was married to my first husband, he liked to use the brief time in which I was “only” going to college full time and raising our toddler as a reason to berate me. I’ll never forget the moment when, after picking up a moist pile of recently cleaned towels off of cold bathroom tiles, I asked him, “Hey, can you try not to leave your wet towels on the floor anymore? I have to wash them again now.”

A simple request that stirred up memories of Natalie Imbruglia lyrics for me but, to my surprise, ignited a fiery anger within him:

“You don’t even work, you fucking bitch.”

This is the baggage I’ve carried.

I left him later that year, but for the last dozen, whether I was self-employed, working from home, underemployed, working toward my degree while parenting a young child or choosing deliberately to focus on my family, this message resonated within me: vibrating my bones in such a way that I couldn’t sit down, I couldn’t rest. I “didn’t work” then, despite the fact that I was moving mountains by obtaining a degree following a teenage pregnancy, caring for a young child. That I was kicked while making moves despite the many cards stacked against me made me feel like I had to constantly prove my worth.

The message I received: if you don’t make money, you don’t deserve common decency or respect, despite other ways you contribute.

While my peers made comments over the years about my “doing it all,” I always felt like I wasn’t doing enough. I didn’t make art because I felt like I had to finish every other task before I could earn time to myself. My home projects were my only creative outlet, yet they were ill-timed and felt like a burden on my family. I felt like I had to earn my keep, though I contribute so much through time, effort, knowledge and love.

what changed?

It wasn’t until I started going to therapy that I was finally able to shed those old beliefs. I gave myself every reason not to go to therapy despite my laundry list of traumas. I was sure that I didn’t need to talk to a professional, because I was already doing all the things: I read self-help books cover-to-cover on the regular, listened to podcasts and YouTube videos about motivation and productivity. I journaled about what was going on internally and gained perspective through that process. I worked out to balance my moods. I talked to friends. Why would I need to talk to a professional?

I see now that I didn’t begin therapy, despite checking all the boxes that would render it necessary, because I didn’t think I deserved it. I didn’t earn the money to pay for it, so I thought of it as a luxury.

I didn’t believe it when others would tell me I was a good mother. Friends on Facebook would leave comments under a picture I’d share of my kid/s with a short blurb about what we were up to: “You’re the best mom!” It would make me pause long enough for a rebuttal to cloud up between my ears: “How would they know? This is Facebook. I could turn around and beat my kids after this photo and they’d be none the wiser.”

what therapy does for me

I never have to worry about my therapist blowing smoke up my ass. Not to say my friends would. They care about me and my feelings in a given moment, whereas a therapist is less concerned about how I interpret an individual comment and more concerned with the results that follow.

Therapy was the missing piece. I didn’t need a new book or a new answer or a new “hack” for how to live. I didn’t need someone who was already in my corner to give me a thumbs up. What I needed was someone unbiased yet well versed in human behavior to tell me, based on knowing me well:

“You’re not just a good mother, you’re also disrupting the cycle of neglect and abuse. That’s big.“

Again and again, weaved throughout conversations over an extended period of time, until it was the new tape I played–until it was internalized.

what I’m working with

My family of origin includes many stories of orphans, including the father who abandoned me when I was five and undergoing chemo.

I might not know the stories of those who came before me, but there are certainly patterns of neglect and abuse on both sides of my family, for generations.

the family I’ve created

I’m working through the traumas of my ancestors while learning how to protect my children from incurring more of the same.

“You’re not just a good mother, you’re also disrupting the cycle of neglect and abuse. That’s big.“

observations

My fourteen year old really likes “pre-Kim” Kanye songs. Unfortunately for my son, every time we listen to one of his tracks I start talking about Ye’s personal life, specifically the nature of the loss of his mother. It goes a lot like this:

*son vibing, nodding his head, rapping along here and there*

*Me rapping along to every lyric, using hand motions, proud of my supreme [not]coolness and surprised I still have all of these lines memorized, though my fifth grade teacher could only squeeze two lines of “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” out of me*

*Tobias still vibing*

Tthe thought flashes across my head, my rapping stops, my hands lower, I give a gentle shake to my head. “Poor Kanye.”

“Mom, we’ve been through this. He’s a billionaire.”

“He lost his MOM. No one will ever love him like her. He knows that. He killed her by paying for that surgery. She made him who he is. She linked him up with the guys that taught him everything he knew about making beats. She nourished his talents and made him the great artist he is. Nothing will make it better. Not the money, not the riches, not the fame…”

“You’re right, Mom. Can we just listen–“

“You know what though, [son]? He’s a great example of how someone can truly flourish when their parents ignite the flames within them. So many parents tell their kids who they should be instead of giving their child the tools to succeed as the person they see themselves as. Ye told her he wanted to make beats, and did she say to him, ‘No, get educated, be a professor like me’? No, she put gasoline on the light he showed her and made him shine bright enough for the world to see.”

“You’re right, Mom,” he says as he reaches for the knob to adjust the volume.

My left hand on the steering wheel, my right shooting out to block his: “Tupac, too. You know his mom was a political activist? Greatness begets greatness.”

“It’s pronounced ‘baguette,’ Mom.” He says with a knowing smirk. “Bread is great, though.”

He knows just what to say to make me roll my eyes and turn the song back up.