The truth is I don’t know how to be a writer and a mom. I don’t know how to require less than silence and isolation. Pushing out words between cries and diaper changes is still very foreign to me. One minute I am a human rocking chair or a musical mobile, the next an inventor of make-shift baby gates. Then I leave for work with people I don’t like in positions I tolerate for a paycheck that tells me my value as a human being is not equal to the rising costs of food and shelter. And I’m supposed to have something valuable to say or think amidst all the mindless activity of being a caretaker and a financial provider.
The bigger tragedy is that my current state of living is to produce, to exert, to impart, to deliver. I have ceased to retain, to receive or to find release. Or relief. What’s the difference? I leave Noah only to go to work. I can only think of a handful of times I was able to leave him for anything else. I’m not a bad mom for needing personal space, for requiring down time. I changed a lot about my life for Noah and I’ve grown in areas I never thought I would, but I can’t change who I am. I love Noah with every atom of my being, but I really hate being a mother sometimes.