The Myth of Mother
It is 1:00 am. I bear the weight on my shoulders alone most nights,
familiar with the ache from carrying
that same weight in my belly so long ago
from shifting that tiny but impossibly heavy thing
from arm to arm when she screamed in constant need
some foreign language I couldn’t naturally decipher
from the bottle and pacifier she wouldn’t take
from drooping eyelids when she refused to latch
from her piercing cries for help
from feeling helpless myself
from two hours of broken sleep collected graciously
from the corner rocking chair for months on end
from sobbing in the bathroom again
from withdrawing
from hiding
because I couldn’t I couldn’t I couldn’t.
Some days, I can’t I can’t I can’t.
Tonight, she jolts up from her bed again
for the third time in the past hour and refuses
to get back in. She is adamant and defiant.
Part of me admires that. The exhausted part
chastises. I am alone in the house with her, like always. It is just us. She banshee-screeches
into the night. She is scared.
Zombies. Witches.
The sound of the groaning refrigerator.
The darkness of the hallway.
The shadow of a toy.
I console. I am trying. I am tired.
I am kicked in the face. I am trying. I am tired.
I speak softly though I am filled with rage.
I cover her with the blanket. I am trying. I am tired.
I retreat and she follows me. I tuck her back in. I am trying. I am tired.
She shouts forcibly and I
scream open-mouthed silence.
I am trying. I am trying. I am trying.
I am
tired of lack of community,
lack of resources. Of feeling
marooned on the island of Mother.
Of what the world expects of us,
sold like some idyllic, glossy advertorial.
“Motherhood is for everyone. You were born for this.
Look how soft motherhood is! Look how rewarding!
Look how joyous and easy we paint it to be. Look at this sanctuary
of such an adorable nursery, every book and toy in place.
Look how we use only calm peach and gentle sage.
Look at us smiling in every family photo.
Look at this peaceful sleeping newborn. Look
how she rarely cries. Look at this sweet
good little angel baby. Look at this
precious cooing bundle, effortlessly breastfeeding.
Look how beautiful! How fulfilling! How natural!
Look at these days overflowing in perfect, cherished moments.
This is everything you want.
You want this.
You want this.
You want this.”
What of the mothers wanting more?
What of the mothers
knee-deep in healing their own trauma,
coming to their own truth, still learning
how to mother themselves?
What of the mothers unfulfilled?
What of the mothers
who sometimes want to disappear?
What of the mothers
treading the brackish water of churning guilt?
What of the mothers grasping, gasping,
overstimulated, overwhelmed?
What of the mothers with so little left to give?
What of the mothers
the mothers
the mothers
struggling to make that word fit?
Words by Maverick Malone