It's been such a long time since I've done anything interesting. Something that wouldn't just be something that a million moms do a million times over. Something that would be amazing across demographics. I gave birth to a baby and two sets of forceps with very little in the way of pain medication a little while ago, but if you're a 20 year old guy, you just googled forceps and then winced, and if you're a mom you crossed your legs without thinking about it. I felt pretty damn amazing afterwards. It was the most hard core thing I've ever done. Harder than trekking Anapurna (and I nearly died doing that). Actually, truth be told, I didn't feel amazing. I felt like I accomplished something horrible that I never thought I'd have to do. Like sawing my own arm off if I'd been that guy in 127 Hours. Yeah it takes balls, but not really the kind that anyone wants to say they have. Also, similar to sawing off a limb, it's nothing you ever plan to do, nor does anyone envy you the opportunity.
When I was young and single I travelled, doing missionary work in places that looked like National Geographic spreads. I have a vague and heartbreaking remembrance of what it felt like then, to be doing something that mattered that much, something that required everything I had to give it. The girl who did that was young, impossibly naive and optimistic, and yet owned something I desperately want back but don't know how to retrieve. I don't really know her any more, she seems like a dream I had of myself, wearing her purpose like a pair of shoes that no longer fit this version of me. I traded in those shoes. Now it's flip flops and yoga pants, hair in a quick ponytail as I rush to Walmart by myself hoping to get my groceries bought before my baby wakes up at home demanding to nurse and Peter is left helpless.
There's parts of my life that that girl wouldn't possibly understand. Last night, my body curled comfortably around the soft sighing ball that is Emma, who sleeps better cuddled into her mama than in any fancy bassinet whose reviews swear that all babies who used it immediately fell into perfect, dreamless, all night sleep. Yes, I totally fell for that. She wouldn't understand that today that same beautiful bundle puked all over my bare feet and I was so thankful because I was worried her diaper had burst. Thankful for puke. Huh. Who'd have thought?
I'd have thought that I'd somehow be totally and completely fulfilled doing this. I've said so many times that I could happily be a 1950's housewife. Maybe that's true, if I'd have been born in the 30's. I've worked at a job that I should make a career. I should stay there, taking a year off every time I have a baby, and build a little retirement fund for Peter and I. I should want that more than I do. And I should love being home more than I do. I am good and truly lost.
I feel like some part of myself, the part that was adventurous and interesting and passionate, has been put to bed like a petulant three year old. Also, like a three year old, it's refusing to stay in bed. It feels as though I grew up, and I don't like where I've ended up. There's these little stands of rebellion I keep making, as though they matter. Refusing to get a mortgage or a minivan. Keeping my eyes open for opportunities abroad. Refusing to settle down here. Refusing to unpack fully. I'm ready to go somewhere, be something else, at a moments notice. And you'd think at this point that I'd take a moment and say that I have children now. Two little girls that need those things, the stability they offer. I'd turn this post into examining the parts of my life that are beautiful and perfect (there are many) and then I'd go to the mortgage broker and put down a root or two and stop being such a baby.
And yet, all I can think is that I don't want my girls to have that life. I don't want to have that life. I want to give them something else, be something else. Mostly, I want to give them a mom that's being true to herself, because that other part of me, the part that hiked Anapurna is still a part of who I am now. I thought it would go away if I just grew up enough. I don't want to give them a mom who put her dreams away until they were older. I want to teach them to follow their hearts by showing them that I'll follow mine. I'd feel like such a hypocrite telling Bella that she can do or be anything she wants to be. I haven't. It's laughable how little my "job" fits my personality.
I don't know what that means, or what it looks like. I don't know yet. And I'm not negating the moments of absolute perfection that being a mom can be. There are moments that are startling in their beauty and the stillness they bring to my racing, restless, heart. But this isn't it. I'm not done yet. I can't be.
