Grief of motherhood
I see a lot of postpartum and perinatal mood disorders in my practice these days. I’ve made it my professional practice focus and I love it. I love talking about motherhood. I love how messy it is. I love the holiness of parenting, mothering. I will admit that I count myself among many moms when I worry about how I parent and mother. I worry about the stamina to do it well. I overanalyze my interactions with my kids at night when they are sleeping. I sneak into their room to give them a tiny kiss if I read about parenting gone horridly awry. I scan their behavior for clues about how I’m doing as a mom. All this over thinking rarely leaves time for me to do me. I had to accept letting go of an identity and grieve its passing in order to acquire a new identity. I had to accept who I’d chosen to become in my motherhood. Motherhood looks different for everyone.
I have two favorite selves. One is 22 year old me working in the southern desert of Idaho in the wilderness. The other is post first marriage me, 27 years old, new house, new lease on life, making powerful choices. 27 year old, single me had a great life. I worked so many more hours, and yet was freer. I answered to no one.
In motherhood I’ve given up that identity of a unfettered, youthful soul. In motherhood my crossfit bod turned into “sometimes-I-eat-gummy-bears-and watch-Octonauts-with-my-3-year-old bod. My car, once used for ski trips and road trips with the dogs, has turned into a sea of car seat parts, ski boots, mateless mittens, diapers, Tide clean up markers, and reusable grocery bags. My schedule, where once I could wake up and work out and go to coffee and then ski or bike til noon, then nap and then whatever til whenever, is constantly updated on Google Calendar by kid trade off times, pediatrician appointments, and meal planning. 27 year old me would scoff at meal planning: No need. Find a paleo burger and some kale. Kid centered me wonders if the chicken something in the crockpot will be too spicy… 27 year old me was deeply lonely, existentially angsty. Motherhood me is sometimes a little touched out and overwhelmed by all that is motherhood.
While I am no longer lonely, I am also grieving that motherhood never lets up. There is never a sick day. There is always someone who needs a smooch or hug or wants to hear my opinion on their backwards pants or lego tower or their fear of a pretend but maybe real crocodile that might someday exist in the kitchen. (Yup, had a real discussion over that yesterday). I am grieving that my identity was mine alone a few years ago and today is loaned out to everyone. Before I answered to and for myself. Now, I think about 4 of us, including me. It’s a transition. I didn’t take naturally to it. I still don’t do it well. I still get stuck and frustrated that so much of me is needed to my babes to be themselves. The time I had to think and write and play a few years ago is now consumed by questions from my husband, my kids, and the things that go on with them.
If I had to define motherhood for myself, that’s what it would be: that a little piece of my soul marches around with my people every day reassuring them, teasing them, holding them, guiding them and while for me that means less time for me, it means more life for them.
I had to relearn how to make time and be authentic to myself in this new identity while I grieved giving it up. My grief only spoke in anger so it took awhile to speak my feelings and for others to accept them. I had to get creative in how I would be authentic with myself, given my definition of motherhood.
I love my motherhood. I had to embrace the journey and accept the losses that came with the territory of motherhood. I would not go back, but at times I miss that carefree time. I chuckle at my concerns then versus my concerns now. I wonder what advice mother me would hand to 27 year old me. I think she might say, “be wild, child! Enjoy, Live it up. Don’t take that loneliness too seriously. It’s time limited. It’ll be ok.”
Until the next time…