It's hard not to feel dissolved.
The identity of funny girl, artist chick watered down to a clear liquid and brought back to a boil to first time mom and all that carries. Struggling to thicken, wondering if I ever will again. It's hard not to feel trapped. Home for seasons on end-- depression to bed rest to baby to baby to winter to now. Identity in a cave, mortality around the corner, and life right in front of you... delicate... with ten little fingers and ten little toes. It's hard not to feel invisible. Spending all this time looking down and lifting up the tiny human mirror that I've created leaves little time to worry about eyebrow hairs, fashion, attraction, health, and I end up looking like a neglected juniper bush, akimbo in the shocking sun and wind. It's hard not to feel unattractive. Two plus years without riding a bicycle, without hiking, without swimming, without movement and sweat and consistency and muscle and aches. Pale skin with new textures, new colors, bruises and veins. Avoiding your reflection cuz you rather like the way the little one sees you over the way you see yourself. Plus, looking down at your body just means more looking down at your body. It's hard not to be jealous. Jealous of the love that can be given so freely to her and the effort that has to go into loving me, who created her. Jealous that she's gotten all the best of me and I'll never really know what that feels like. Jealous that other Moms get love while giving love and aren't diminishing their wells. Jealous that these feels don't exist for other people. And you stop and think about how foolish you were to think that the Upgrade to Motherhood was a linear thing and silly to think it had a beginning, middle, and end. I know full well that time is relative. Time doesn't end and Upgrades don't end when you have a one year old. It doesn't end when I turn 36. It doesn't end. It's hard not to be lonely. Guess I'm supposed to be the leader of this little family--the head of household. A Mom is shielding, strong, full of answers, and lugs a purse full of snacks. I really want to take care of someone who doesn't need me, but who wants me. I feel way too fucking cool to being doing this alone and it's hard not to let that mentality? thought? hope? strength? crumble when each day it's brightness fades... kind of like a gemstone that dulls from over wear or a piece of glass that curves over time from the grinding of the tide on the beach. It's a metaphor I use often... Wait, is it metaphor?? I'm no longer sure it is metaphor. Is it even a figure of speech? I don't mean it rhetorically. The high road is a path that I choose daily when it comes to my perspective on coparenting and dealing with FOB. It's a tangible visualization, I can smell the soil and hear the scrape of the rock under my feet. It started in a field. I felt like I had been dropped there after some sort of out of body experience or alien abduction. Dawn breaking over hills and solitude, it is just me and my body ready to work and keep working--from child labor to emotional labor to manual labor. Yeah. It's not a figure of speech. Aw, man. It has to do with morality? Catholic school just absolutely formed and ruined me on that at the same time. Fine. Let's do that one, too. OK. I think I've got the gist of that one. I mean, granted, in my existence (as with most humans I think), I have created a gray ground of moral ambiguity so I could sway between, learn from, and exist in right and wrong without hating myself or over loving myself. Like, that line between the black and white part of a yin yang? It's gray.
I guess the point of this post is this. I joke? confess? profess? declare? state? exist? in a place with coparenting where I feel like I build the high road on a daily basis. One little goddess shoulder Mallory says, "fuck that cocksucker he dumped you make him pay {insert maniacal, hurt laughter here} and other Little goddess shoulder Mallory says, ''think of the kid, think of forever, think and build... even if it's hard." And that's who I've tried to listen to for the past year. It's fucking hard. It's me after a year of building. I have a sunburn and my hands are no longer pretty. Water is running low but it looks like it's going to rain soon. I have one giant rock in each hand. Fingers clenched around each piece of earth, withered, broken, bloody, and nails bent. Feet underneath each fist exhausted, confused, vulnerable, holding the world upright. Moving forward continuously with the occasional stumble, building the road as you go means it's always behind you. More earth to move, more to labor. This birds eye view of these hands backed by a mind of thought.... wondering what it will do today. Will it take each rock and smash whatever (or whomever) is in the way to smithereens? Will it continue to build? Will there be an alarm that goes off before the bloodshed at least? Oh, the bloodshed.... it's a metaphor. She likes head scritches. She showed me. She rustles her little fingers across her hair when she wants me to scritch her head like a little puppy, nails digging and circles made. She likes playing with the trucks. The ones that roll and make noise. Especially the fire truck that belongs to her cousin. She likes baby shark and she wants it now. It doesn't help that I've been humming that infectious tunes to her since birth and mumbling the wrong words of ''baby Dorf" her whole life. If there's a screen on, she wants it to be that. I've also provided her with a decoy remote so she can pretend to 'turn it up' with her mouth. She wears size four diapers and the box says 'toddler' on it and I may have ugly cried while carrying it inside. She sleeps to dream more. The way her little limbs twitch and she cries out or coos in the night tells me so. When she wants to be picked up she signals with her little hands, similar to the sign language for milk. She tests me. When she touches things she's not supposed to and I inevitably make that erroneous mom noise she just stares at me, smirks, and reaches out again. That's right, but they never attack the same place twice. They were testing the fences for weaknesses, scientifically. They remember. She no longer cries at the sight of her Dad. Or my girlfriends. Or people in general.
She waves hello and good bye (AND YOU BETTER FUCKING WAVE BACK TO MY BABY OR I WILL COME AT YOU LIKE A RABID RACCOON WITH THE HEAT AND GUILT OF A THOUSAND SUNS) She cruises along furniture and crawls like the wind. She can pick things up and shove them in her mouth with minute accuracy at the speed of light. She loves to be read to and loves picking out the books and turning the pages with me. This is just the tip of the Nugget iceberg, the tiniest of fractions of what she amazes me with. She cracks me up and I love her more every day. Man oh man, she's goooooing thrrrrrroooouuuugh chhhhhaaaaaaaannnnges. I've been ''fortunate'' enough to be able to stay home with my baby since she was born--all ten months.
I use quotey fingers because fortune is one of those concepts that is relative, that's divided, defined by shades of grass, and is certainly fickle. Lemme spell out this ''fortune'' for you--you few who apparently exist and think it's my white privilege? my spoiled luck? my daddy's retirement? mommy's handout? I've lived the last ten months on lock down--zero income with minimal output. All money paid in the form of child support has, in fact, gone to child support--clothing, diapers, breastfeeding expenses, formula, shelter, and medical. All whopping $250 of it. I've taken to nannying (taking to school, picking up from school, and babysitting) my nephew a few days a week so I can pay my phone bill and maybe put gas in my car. I've moved back in with my mother who a) has a house that needs constant work b) has rheumatoid arthritis as a result of her breast cancer so she literally needs a hand constantly c) she's my bestie and was on disability for the last year unable to work d) I'm basically a very loving, very grateful indentured servant e) I'm a really great cook and she needs me. I've had to utterly re-write my existence. I've gone from pre-baby thriving career in art, self-sustained creator to.... a new mom artist, paving her way as she goes, scraping by and saving pennies. Alone. I've set aside personal coping skills, creative skills, social skills, and physical comforts to be with this baby for the last ten months. I'm a shell of a Mallory, a skeleton of a past self, along with the upgrade of mother. Take your ''fortunate'' and turn to your partner and thank them for:
Or... take your fortunate and shove it up your snatch. *shrug* I would not change one damn thing. /rant I guess it’s time for some sort of year in reflection. 2019 is tomorrow. I don’t like the idea of looking back and wishing things were different...
(I do wish I hadn’t had that chicken noodle soup for lunch that is now wreaking revenge on my bunghole and keeping me home on this “holiday”) Maybe not different, but looking back as to what went wrong in some fake analysis, veiled hope that I might learn from it or do something different next time, if there is a next time. There’s a couple of pressing thoughts, a couple of thentheresthat’s that keep recirculating in my head. I don’t know if that means they’re important or if it means that I am shallow, readable, operating on some level of surfaceness. I keep thinking about how this was the first year in a long time nobody held me. Granted, I did a lot of holding. Still holding. Holding this teething fever into the new year holding... But... No one held me. What a sad thing that is. What a sad statement. It creates a chill in me and my brain nips are erect and trembling. I don’t enjoy this vulnerability. Especially when I feel vulnerable for two. I’m a creature built for companionship. I love. I love deeply. I find joy in acts of service. I will bend the sky so my love can be the stars. This is the first year I’ve bent it for ourselves, I bought warmer sheets so we are less cold at night. I are now we. I reinvented my purpose while grounding all the egos of my nature. I held myself upright. I held myself accountable. I held up up my part of the deal. I held space. I held the door open. But I keep thinking about arms and warm and how fucking cold it is outside. And then I think about how alla this is prolly just weaning hormones and the boiling fact that haven’t had sex in over a year while the ghosts of wangs past are all around and haunting. I’m really grateful that the goals are aligning, that’s my other thought. Grateful that my family has their health and togetherness. I’m grateful for this rickety roof sheltering all of us. I’ve been able to really manifest a future for myself with my daughter. Starting, well, starting tomorrow I guess. In 2019 I will be teaching “Caretake and Me” painting classes at the a local parent-centric cafe. It's a new, amazing, family centric, all inclusive café where your kids can play and eat good food and hang out and do homework. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’m excited to put some of my momentum behind the place. This year I’ve also pitched a program to the state Museum of Art—Stroller tours. One day, two days, three mornings—whatever it turns out to be, pack up your kiddo and meet me at the museum and will go on a kid friendly tour of the artwork. I’m hoping it really takes off and I’m excited to partner with such a respectable organization. My dream of getting to take my child to work is slowly coming true. Creating my own future, independent. I might not be held by anyone, but at least I’m not being held back. It’s been a transitional year for people around me as well. My mom's health, my brother's happiness, my dad’s retirement. Friends, too. Friends that once played a large role in my life have withdrawn since I’ve had a child. I think there’s truth to that myth... that rumor? That saying? that once you have a child, your childfree friends taper off. Moms make new friends with similar alignments to cope with the isolation. We’re just trees in two separate forests now. Trees trying to break through the crown with no hard feelings because every tree needs the light. And then there’s my lil seedling, sapling, sweet lil bundle. Dear Dorothy, You know how I know I love you? I let you have the carrots from my chicken noodle soup. Best bites. Always. You know how I know I love you? You take a shit and I feel relief. You know how I know I love you? I vacuum daily. I chew when you chew. I’ve willingly tasted your spit just to be kissed by you. I make your food for every meal. I feel it when I hold you and can’t stop feeling it when you aren’t near. I tolerate the idiocy of *ahem* because I want you to be able draw your own conclusions. You came out of my body this year, into my heart last. Our souls are on a path together and I’m in awe of your fearlessness, curiosity, softness, and humanity. And your amazing bubble booty that I know didn’t come from my genes. Here's to wishing together, walking together, laughing, and holding. Cheers to my kin. My girl. My better half. The precious sweet potato, Nugglebuns Beeble, DottyMo Rey Go--made of star stuff. There’s a park by my house where it happened.
A year ago, more already. Time flies when you don’t? can’t? won’t? look up. Across one busy road where traffic halts for a stroller and down a small hill to the geese, pavement and rock encircle a lake. A lake with a park where I remember playing in first grade. A lake where I remember releasing my brother's pet turtles in the 90s when my mom got sick of their stench. When I was sixteen, I was grounded for the summer and the only place I could run to was literally running around this mile stretch of lake and land. I never ran so much in my life—and me and my giant boobies and shin splints are not runners! Once or twice, I saw my mom cruising, creepin hella slow around the lake in her red suburban, making sure I was where I said I would be. Moms, amirite? There’s this little hillscape on the southwestern ish corner of the water where geese go to snack, crows to murder, and folks to contemplate both. Between sage brush and tree are metal benches, for view, for thought, and for privacy. The elderly feed critters, take rest, and birds seem to go out of their way to shit on these benches. It was here last November where it happened. I had gotten here early to collect myself and reread the notes I’d tried to memorize earlier. The ones about crucial conversations and listening with love and quieting defenses. I’d been lent this book and it resonated so deeply with me that I thought it was the answer to all our problems.... which at that moment, was me. All me. I had gotten there early to smoke a cigarette. Okay, fine, two. In secrecy and shame. I made my way over to the green bench, the one facing north, the one half shaded and chilly. I waited and rehearsed, imagined, and planned. I waited openly, with eagerness, with child and with faith. It was cold and we were both wearing Carhartt's, but only I showed up to do work. He arrived with his decision on his face. This relationship was over and launched to its end like a torpedo and I didn’t even get to turn my key. It felt like the most major of decisions in the whole entire world had been made without me. I don’t think I cried until I got back to the car... I didn’t stop crying until the year ended. I had to avoid this bomb sight of a lake bench for some time after that. Take an alternative route, avert my eyes. I remember regretting having agreed to meet him there, this sacred, historical lake to me. After I stopped crying, and the pills began to kick in (and I would leave my house), I would let? make? myself walk the path around the water most every day. As I would approach the hillscape to the bench I would look and I would see and I would remember. Sometimes I would cry, sometimes I would be angry, sometimes I would turn the music up. I would just glare at that bench and wonder and replay. The bench became an icon I fixated upon... I dreaded its eye contact and yet it fueled me. It’s now November again and the city has been kind enough to pay special attention to that patch of land. The bushes have been trimmed out, leaves collected, weeds pulled, and wouldn’t you know... benches utterly rearranged? replaced? reset? I couldn’t tell you which one was which or where that one is. It’s just no longer there. There’s no green, metal reminder facing north, half shaded and chilly anymore. I walk there now with our daughter. Sometimes she sleeps, sometimes she coos at the birds, and often people stop us to tell me how beautiful she is. Especially the old people...always the old people. I’ve walked that circle more times than I can count to my life. I’ve walked that circle most of those times in the last year. I’ve walked to breathe and think, I’ve walked to isolate and stew, I’ve walked alone and with friends. I’ve walked to sweat and shrink. Nugget and I just finished a Saturday stroll come to mention it and I’ve lost all the baby weight and then some. I feel great. Renewed. I feel lighter and less heavy, like a great many weights have been lifted. Insert cliche “dropped dead weight of 180 lb boyfriend” line here. Come on, 2019. I am ready for ya. |
AuthorMallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. |
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