The other day, Daryl told me about a conversation he'd had with a coworker of his — a woman who's recently given birth to her first child, who was excited that Daryl is married to someone who makes a life out of writing about motherhood.
I feel lost. "Why did he tell her that?" I thought to myself; do I write about motherhood at all? I'm faced with this question every time I really sit down to dissect my mission here. You can take a deep-dive into my archives and find plenty of entries about what life as a mother looked like for me when I was running around after my thumb-sucking, cheese-eating toddler; but there came a day when all of it faded into the muted background.
The only noise I could hear after that day, of course, was the chaotic earth-shattering sound of my own heart breaking while I said goodbye to the child slated to be my second-born. And I think I had about five minutes to process that grief and cultivate a hope of restoration and rainbow before learning my first miscarriage would be my last pregnancy thanks to my secondary infertility diagnosis, which I fought tooth and nail to disprove, to no avail.
Everything has changed. (Nothing has changed.) My sighs of sadness have lessened in depth, but I can see no hope of a life in which they cease to exist. Margot ages surely and steadily in front of my eyes, the only-born she's sentenced to be. My life looks nothing like I thought it would; neither does my blog, nor do any of my writings published elsewhere online. I meant to make a life out of writing about the bonkers nature of parenting, and instead I found myself yelling out into the ether something to the effect of, "THIS LIFE IS HARD AND I'M NOT FEELING VERY OKAY ABOUT IT."
So instead I battle my own heartache while that girl of mine, that thumb-sucking, cheese-eating walking miracle of life, lights up every dark corner I meander into. This life has tried to drown me nearly incessantly for the past two-and-a-half years — maybe longer — and I've not always done a very good job at grasping any one of the myriad life preservers that float alongside me in this sea of great uncertainty.
It's been months since I last pried at the floorboards that lead to the trap door I have to travel through in order to access this blog of mine; but here it lies, nestled exactly where I left it, coated in a thick layer of dust. I'm blowing it off again. Hello, friends.
Motherhood is bonkers. My heart is crazy-glued back together, with pieces upside down, inside out and missing altogether; but it beats wildly over all the love that pours into it and out of it. And through it all, I'm writing about it. I'm here. Let's talk.