I reside in the mundane, living out the "softness" of the maternal season of womanhood. For me, the stay-at-home-mom life is a vista imbued with over-the-sink sills giving way to trash can-lined street scenes. It's the rolling in and crashing out of the seasons, the quiet thrumming and daily churning of a small but meaningful life.
I question myself as much as I question the inscrutable images of other mothers, of other home life methods, comparing the variety of formulas, and weighing the pros and cons of every ritual and rule. And I come away with a resounding question mark, an unsolvable equation. Some mothers are master organizers, whipping out frugal solutions like a magician's rabbits. Others have mastered the art of riding out the waves, finding discomfort comfortable and chaos poetic. I admire both for their achievements and gifting.
For a while, I grabbed a hold of the idea that there exist natural mothers and unnatural mothers. I decided that women who thrive in chaos, or at least more easily accept the nearly constant state of floundering that comes with sleepless nights, milk supply issues, and toddler tantrums, are the naturals. Some women, I supposed, truly love changing dirty diapers and scoff at the idea of doing anything else, or even wanting to do anything else, ever. Women like myself, I decided, who feel a distinct need for creative outlets, or who thrive in order and revel in routine, are just naturally...well, bad at motherhood.
At some point, though, I started to suspect that if a lot of mothers look alike to me, then perhaps I'm just not looking very closely.
Slowly, I'm beginning to accept the idea that there are not natural mothers and unnatural ones in as much as there is a vast variety of parenting styles, situations, convictions, and personalities which come into play to form the complete picture of anyone's experience of motherhood. I didn't cease to be a complicated, ambitious woman when I became a mother. She's all still there, sometimes crying into her cold coffee, and sometimes stomping on the cellar door with her daughters while the dog yelps like mad and I imagine we're princesses at a pow-wow.
In short, I guess I'm becoming more and more comfortable with the idea that I'm dancing to the beat of my own maternal drum. If any other mothers out there feel out of place or ill-equipped for the job, don't listen to the lie that you're not made to do this.
Just keep dancing, Darling. Just keep dancing.
Sincerely,
Natasha
