peevish mama

Words by Anaïs Nin hand lettered by artist Lisa Congdon via Explore.

Boy do I hope this to be true. If you had told me when I graduated from college, or on my wedding day, or when Saint James was born, that I would be “living the confusions” so vividly at age 42, I would have rolled my eyes. Or I would have opened my mouth to argue, then shut it for lack of words. Or I would have scoffed. Maybe I would have laughed. But I don’t think I would have believed you.

And yet, here I am. So confused. And confused about being confused. I thought that “settling down” through the various degrees of it that I went through (dating, law school, marriage, kids) might somehow settle the matter of what I was to do with myself. I thought my path and my life was set. What could be more time consuming and fulfilling, after all, than raising a family with your best friend? Shouldn’t I be content?

It turns out there’s that pesky matter of the self – that despite being consumed and used up and fully immersed and engaged, wrung out and sometimes completely exasperated – just keeps popping up and saying Hey, man! What about me?

Don’t hear me wrong. I am happy. But am I content? That’s what that wily, whiny, stubborn self keeps asking.

Fall has always felt like a time of new beginnings for me – surely a remnant from back-to-schools of yore. These days, it’s when I climb out of the messy sweaty frantic 24-7 sprint that is summer with my kids and get a chance to think about what I do, what I could do, what I should do. You know, besides being a mom.

I think all the time. I think when I’m shopping for food and cooking it in big pots. I think when I’m at yoga and driving my kids. I think in the shower and when I walk my dog. I think when I’m reading, when I’m writing. My brain feels like a beat up old tennis ball and I am just bouncing it, bouncing it, bouncing it against the garage. Over and over. And nothing changes. Nothing becomes clear.

Maybe this is part of the process. Part of the answer.

I fucking hope so.