When I undress each night, I am reminded of the lives of my children. It’s no secret that the mother’s body is a physical testimony to the life she’s brought into the world, and my body is no different. Over the years I’ve watched my hips widen and seen stretch marks form like little rivers and tributaries across my lower belly. I also bear a thin pink line across my pelvis. The unevenness of the incision, the way it arcs slightly upward above my right hip, reminds me of the way in which my boys made their arrivals into the world. But these physical reminders are my battle wounds the emblazoned marks that made me who I am today, a mother.
The work of motherhood is cyclical; it's hard to decipher the beginning and almost impossible to imagine the end. It is relentless and monotonous. And yet it's all very necessary. Every few weeks I struggle both privately inside my head and publicly in front of my husband and on the phone with good friends about the sacrifice of my decision to stay home. I am envious of the men and women that I know who get to go to an office and bounce ideas off of co-workers. I miss the banter over lunch and the gratifying tick marks on a to do list. But then I think of everything I do get to do. I get to sing a ditty to my youngest before he takes his nap, I get to walk to the post office whilst pointing out all of the birds and I get to pick up my oldest from school and be the first one to hear about his day. And on most days this is enough and I feel fulfilled with my choice but then I begin to panic. I think about years down the line when both kids are at school. What do I do then? Who am I? What are my goals? And frankly, at this moment in time I just do not have the answers. I know what I love. I love my boys. I love my husband. I love my neighborhood. I love art. And man do I love coffee. And for right now I'm going to settle on that. I am doing the best that I can. To keep ahold of me. Just me.
