 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.
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 Short rant. Large topic.
It's ridiculous. It's exhausting. It's everywhere. We (collective as a society 'we' including me cuz I'm guilty of it, too) can't just let people... people in public. I have a date today and I'm sitting here stressing over how I'll look, my hair and makeup, what I will wear and all I really wanna wear is something fucking comfortable cuz life is hard, motherhood is hard. Hard. Yes, it happens to be running shoes. Yes, it happens to be black running tights. Yes, a hoodie. Yes, no makeup. Yes, my hair is in an emotional bun on top of my head. Yes, coffee is my friend. It is a stereotype because it's true. These things in combination are fantastic. It's a joke because it's funny to those who don't live it... or who's shoes are too tight. Or who's hair didn't do the thing they wanted it to. Or who didn't wear their Big Girl Panties to the life party. Why do we do that to people? Why do we expect them to be special in public? Well dressed? Fit? Beautified? Why isn't every fucking day of the week Casual Friday? Why can't we be casual? Why can't we shift the focus to all that stupid shit that's so unimportant like well-restedness, happiness, ease of movement, and joy? /rant  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.  Confession: I had to google how to pronounce the word 'sentient' today.
Fact: I was saying it wrong. Dotty is sentient and it shows and shows and shows. Don't get me wrong, I was fully aware that she is a perceptive and feeling human being, but there's been a shift in her showing it. My Babe is ten months old and makes me laugh like a madwoman. She does things hoping to illicit a desired response and I can see it in her actions on the regular. Whether it be in the bath when she wants a toy, in the high chair when she squeals for a bite, or any other time she wants to tell me whats on her mind. One of my new favorite things is the belly blowing. Since she was a tiny little Beeble I've been kissin on her belly and blowing raspberries onto it after baths, while changing diapers, while we play--anytime and all the time. It's just too cute of a little belly to ignore and the well-termed cute aggression gets the best of me. Plus, her little bellybutton is just staring back at me and that's where we started, tied together by pulse and blood. *sigh* Recently our bed time routine has begun to more consistently have book reading and some baby led play time. We read through three or four books and then I do what she does, I follow her lead, we wind down without screens. But she, little adorable, has begun blowing raspberries on *my* belly and quickly turning her cute little cherub face to mine to make sure I'm laughing. Oh my god the melts. THE. MELTS. She's so tender and pure and soft and strong and smart and I just.... I just can't even. THE. MELTS.  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 Lucky Childe. The Lucky Childe is 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 Nevada 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 moms health, my brothers 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 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 JLo booty that I know didn’t come from my genes. Heres 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.  The first thing I do when I find myself obligated-ly (I made that word up) baby free... is take 4 ibuprofen. It's good for the swelling and back aches that come along with lugging around a 19.5lb, 30 inch long Nugget of Love around. The Doc prescribed 800mg motrin for postpartum recovery and in my adrenaline haze of ''holy shit baby here'' sleep deprivation rush, I never filled it.
It'd be nice to have, is all. One pill to rule them all. I recommend a light self-medication of the same--whether it be weed or anti-inflammatory meds, it helps in the release of bodily tension everywhere. Marijuana is especially helpful in the shifting of mental gears for some. For me? It just makes me anxietal as FUCK. The next thing I like to do is start laundry. In the name of multitask, wash them sheets, girl. Those baby-weaning night sweats are upon us and they ain't pretty. They're chilly and hot at the same time with cold, clammy toes and bad hair. Don't forget to collect baby socks from every corner of the house and be sure to look under couch and chair. Oh, and bib collection. The really gnarly ones that have blueberry and yogurt all mashed into the fabric. And things that may or may not have touched poop are also very important to wash. Poop likes to hide. Poop has poop spores that float and attach... be thorough. After the laundry is sorted and domination of the machines is expressed, order is claimed.... run the bath. Run it hot. Think of all those showers you've taken in the last week with your Nugget. She gets the warm water droplets dribbled on her, not you. She gets the toys and the giggles. You... you just kind of crouch into a ball in the cold, half wet back of the shower awkwardly hovering like a security guard making sure things are safe and stay safe and safe. Add bubbles to that bath. The ones you bought for you nephew but you secretly love. Yeah, those ones. Not those intense bath bomb things that have glitter and odor and feel like overkill. The only chemical reaction I want to have happen in the tub is cognitive calm brain trance release. And bubbles. Mr. Bubble baby bubbles, actually. Grab that book you've been ''reading'' for over a year. The one that has nothing to do with parenting, self help, communication, child psychology, language and linguistics, things you can't afford, or cartoons. You know the one. Grab this book and open the blinds to let that winter sunshine in. Once you're in, don't forget to look down and see beauty. Remember how amazing the female body is and how our vaginas and lady organs are like re-built engines. Remember to thank your colon for finding it's parking spot again. Remember to thank your body for creating life. Massage your scars in every direction. Still. Always. Put your ears under the water and remember when we had two heartbeats, two separate pulses and one set of lungs. After the bath, pluck those fucking chin hairs. No one is going to tell you about them, so do your face homework. Put on your big girl panties. Don't forget your lashes/lipstick/whateverthefuckmakesyoufeelputtogetherandsexy Change over the laundry. Make a list of all the adulting you have to do:
And attack the day. |
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Mallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. What She Said
November 2018
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