Mothered
Brutal and Beautiful
“Becoming a mother leaves no woman as it found her. It unravels her and rebuilds her. It cracks her open, takes her to her edges. It’s both beautiful and brutal; often at the same time.”
- Nikki McCahon
My daughter was born on a Friday night in August. Over 8 hours of labor at nearly 10 centimeters dilated, 6 of them drugless, before the doctor finally said, you need to stop clenching, you need to let go. Yes, well, how? As if this hasn’t been the story of my life.
“This isn’t working, we need to do a Cesarean,” A tear rolled down my cheek. I so wanted to experience the pain, the pushing, and a bloody baby put on my bare chest. I would look at her and say welcome to the world, my darling daughter.
But I was so tired of not even knowing what the room looked like; tired of feeling like my legs being sawed off would be less painful. This was not happening at all in the way I’d imagined. The mood was low; my husband was pale, white with a green tinge.
I saw my girl for the first time in his arms, my numb arms tethered and outstretched, like I was on the cross. There would be plenty of supposed martyrdom to come.
The bedroom is a torture chamber. It used to be a quiet sanctuary and now it is where I go to not sleep. Even when it is still and quiet, I’m listening for infant breaths. The thoughts start to race, and quickly go off the rails and crash. Everything hurts. I can’t sit up. This all seems like a mistake. How does anyone ever choose to do this again, willingly? What is wrong with me? I am weak, through and through. I had always thought I could do anything, if I put my mind to it. Now, my mind is the scariest place to be.
My husband is leaving for work. I’m a puddle on the kitchen floor, my salty tears surrounding me. My baby girl also hasn’t stopped crying but she’s tearless.
He’s standing there, saying nothing, but his eyes pleading with me to get up. I don’t know how to do this, I tell him. I feel like I am carrying two tons not seven pounds. I would rather see 100 patients a day.
“You need to sleep,” says my therapist after I was dragged to her couch, kicking and screaming. Maybe if I could get the rest I need if I was hit by a car. If I was incapacitated. Maybe then.
“Is your Mom around to help?” she asks. “You need your Mom when you become a mother.”
I am five years old and I can’t get my carseat buckled. I ask for help but the car is already in motion. Why isn’t she buckling me in? A jolt, and my head hits the rear driver’s side window and then I fly to the other side of the car. Sparkles burst like fireworks. Is this what people mean when they say they are seeing stars? My head pounds rhythmically, like a vise gripping and letting go.
I manage to get back into my carseat and despite the erratic movements of the car, I get the buckle to click. I can do it myself, I think, and that becomes a thematic river running through my life.
A few hours later a policeman knocks on the door. I go to tell my Mother, and she is laying in the bathtub, the water is overflowing, and she’s looking at me but not really.
I turn the water off and leave the bathroom with wet socks, trailing soaked footprints back to the front door.
It has taken me two hours to unload the dishwasher. I’m “making pizza” with my precious 2-year-old. The pizza toppings are anything she can find and bits of ripped up paper on a plate, which she then throws in the air. The floor is covered in toys, spilled milk, and the paper confetti. I can’t seem to complete a single task, like the nightmares where I just can’t find what I need to find or can’t get where I need to go. But I’m not sleeping. I am awake, tired, and dirty. She is so adorable. Why can’t I just play with her?
It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Is it too early for wine?
The days are long but the years are short. Right. It feels like trudging through molasses; it is sweet but sludgy.
“Holly, I’m pulled overrrr on the Interstate”, my Mom slurs, calling from the newly installed car-phone. “I think it would be better if I just pulled in front of a tractor-trailor, I’m worthlesssss, no one wantssss me to live anyway…”
“Mom, what are you talking about? You don’t sound ok…” I start to cry. My Dad rips the phone from my hand and asks what she had just said and screams into the phone, “What the fuck, what is wrong with you, how could you say that to a 9-year-old” and then tells me she hung up on him.
I can’t stop crying. I beg him to take me to find her and he won’t. He says she’ll be back. He was right.
But I’m not sure I came back from that moment.
My girl is 9-months-old and crawling, green eyes ablaze in front of a full length mirror, watching herself move. I’m sitting on the floor, watching her, but elsewhere still. She crawls to me, points at the puffs in my lap, her forefingers and thumbs touching on each hand, then touching each other. She makes the motion again - I think she said “more” in sign language!? You want more puffs? Yes, my girl, you can have as many as you want.
She plops her tiny body into my lap, still stuffing her mouth with puffs. She puts her head on my shoulder. I feel an immense warmth I’ve never felt before. So, this is the love that moves mountains.
I understand now, more than ever, there are so many ways communicate, to show love, that don’t involve speech.
“Mom, what is today?” my 10-year-old asks, tears in her eyes. It is April 15th, sweetie. “Maybe we could say this day is Angus’ rebirth into doggy heaven, instead of the day he died.” she says softly, her lip quivering. Oh, baby, that is beautiful.
I can see the finality of our dog’s time on this Earth hitting her. In this moment, she now understands death. Her knees buckle, and I catch her on the way down.
We collapse on the living room rug.
“Mom, he was just the best, wasn’t he? We were so lucky to have had him.” she squeezes me.
I smile through my tears.
Maybe the years are short. As my girl grows up, unless I really think about it, I only seem to remember the giggles, the forts, the snuggles, the kisses, the hugs, the love that brings you to tears.
Why is it I only remember the bad memories growing up?
What will my daughter remember of her childhood when she is grown?
Do you need to be mothered to be a good mother?
No. But I think it helps.
Were the mothers before us doing their best? Most were likely doing better than their own mothers. Maybe they mothered us in the only way they knew how. I know so little of what my mother went through herself.
Hopefully we all strive to do better than our mothers. Hopefully we can ask for help when we need it. Hopefully we can break the cycle, if one needs to be broken.
Being a mother, or a father, is hard enough at baseline.
May we raise our children with the best possible foundation so they can do their best with the inherent brutality of parenthood. So it leaves them open to embrace the beauty to the fullest extent.
Holly, this is so incredibly beautiful. You put into words your whole heart and soul. I felt every moment of being a mother reading this. I believe the struggles you had with your family have made you the strong tenacious woman that you are today.
Well it isn’t like I was having a great day anyway but I’ve been sitting here crying now.
I miss my kids’ mother so much. Not the her that walked out last Christmas but the one that raised those babies. Not the one that left us all behind but the one who sewed and baked.
I have too much to do this morning to cry or waste your time but I loved this thank you.
My therapist is back next week thank g-d.