Maybe motherhood is a metamorphosis, like a butterfly’s, and I’m in the cocoon phase. But if so, I’m pretty sure I’m doing it backwards and going from a beautiful butterfly to a squishy slimy worm.
You know that mom in the grocery store parking lot with her hair falling out of her ponytail and stains on her yoga pants and a determined smile on her face while her offspring yell and tug at her? I always felt sorry for her; she couldn’t even get it together enough to handle a grocery store run. But not anymore. Now….well, now I find ways to avoid going to the grocery store solo with all three kids. Fresh fruits and vegetables are over-rated, and what’s more, I don’t need your judgment, thankyouverymuch.
Some time ago, at the end of weeks with the kids off school, I realized my voice was actually hoarse from yelling at them all day. If you know me even a little, you know I’m not the yelling type. But I’d been yelling, and a lot. When did I become this, I asked myself? Does it have to be this way? What in the name of all that is good and right in this world has my life become?
Yes, it is a beautiful life, full of beautiful, healthy children who live and love large and out loud in the heartbreaking way that only children can. They have taught and continue to teach me more than anything has. They bring me joy and pure delight. Yes, it’s a life with a wonderful and committed spouse and lots of memories being made. I am fortunate; I know I am. And I know they will grow and change and need me less and fly away. I know all that. I know I should be grateful for this time.
But sometimes, think of me what you will, I am not. Sometimes, I can’t take any more of their living out loud. I just want quiet. In fact, in the precious few quiet moments, early in the morning or late at night when they’re in bed, I think I’ve become someone I don’t recognize. And that is pretty terrifying. I say things that would be laughable in any context other than among kids, and I say them so frequently I am sure I will go crazy from the repetition. I am very happy to climb under the covers at 9pm. I drive a minivan. Going to the movies, or to, well, any type of event, is no longer a typical Saturday night. It’s a once in a blue moon occasion to be anticipated and savored. So is finishing a meal while it’s hot. Come to think of it, so is finishing a thought or a sentence without interruption. And it’s been this way for so long I have to concentrate to remember it wasn’t always so.
I have to remember too that, although examples like these are easy to find, they do not define who I am. Like the creature in that cocoon, the essence of who I am is buried somewhere behind the toys and school papers and constant chatter that are my environment these days.
One day, I hope to return to myself. I hope my kids will know me as I know me, or the me I imagine I am at my best. I hope to be able to have the conversations with them that I always imagined having, even when I was a kid myself. Right now, I’d take even the ability to talk to my kids without interrupting myself to yell things like, “How many times do I have to ask you not to pinch your sister?” or “Don’t interrupt someone when they’re in the middle of talking,” or a whole host of other things that are, simply, maddening.
But what if there is no returning to myself? The dreams I’d had of the type of mother I wanted to be are slowly being reshaped by reflections of the type of mother I am becoming, and the relationships I will have with these particular kids in our particular life. I hope that my kids will know me one day as a person, not just their hassled, frazzled mom. They may never know the young woman I used to be, but that chapter is long closed. Motherhood is a metamorphosis, and I’m in the cocoon phase. Until that cocoon breaks open, I don’t know how I will emerge. But I do know there is such a long road to travel, and in those multitudes of hours, there is the opportunity for betterment that I mustn’t let pass.