thoughts on turning thirty-two

I feel as though I’ve come upon a fork in the road. Maybe not a fork in the road so much as an impasse where it’s time to, figuratively speaking, shit or get off the pot. I turn thirty-two in a little over one month and for what feels like the first time, my age is carrying with it some metaphorical weight.

Aging has never bothered me. At least not the physical aspects of it, anyway. I was always one of those kids who was dreaming of being another year older before I could even blow my candles out for the age I was turning that day. I’ve always maintained the outlook that the alternative to aging is being dead which makes aging a reasonably more attractive option. It’s only been recently that who I am in relation to my age has began to bother me. Maybe bother isn’t the right word because I’m not bothered by it. A more accurate description might be for me to say that aging and its implications have given me a lot to think about with particular regards to aging and being a mother.

I became pregnant at 24. I welcomed Marlo shortly after I turned 25 and cranked out another two in the five years that followed. It could be argued that while most people are navigating the road of adulthood and self-identity and paying bills and figuring out what you want to do with your life, I was navigating how to keep another human alive. And then another. And then another. And while those humans were surely implicit in shaping me into the woman I now am, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that outside of my role as Marlo, Edie, and Knox’s mama, I’m not entirely sure who the hell I am.

Even before I had children, I never subscribed to the idea of motherhood as the end-all, be-all of womanhood. I never knocked anyone who knew from an early age that having children was their calling and would surely be the pinnacle of their lives but I’ve never personally identified with that outlook. It was never a role I pictured for myself until life happened and motherhood found it’ way into my grand plan whether I was eager or not. The moment I learned I was pregnant I embraced motherhood with open arms and, yet, not a single step along the way has felt natural or without effort for me. I’m almost seven years in and I often find myself just as clueless and ill-equipped and under-stimulated with particular aspects of motherhood as I did before I ever experienced it first hand.

Whether I knew it or not, growing, birthing, and sustaining the lives of my babies became inextricably tied to my self-identity and, subsequently, my self-worth. For the last seven years, my main priority has been to essentially keep them alive. What I’ve found is that while keeping my children alive, moderately happy, and ensuring they don’t become assholes isn’t where my maternal responsibilities end, it most certainly is where the line separating meeting their needs and maintaining a separate but equal sense of self gets blurry.

Which has inevitably lead me to where I am now. The emotional, mental, and physical responsibilities of pregnancy and postpartum and sustaining the lives of young children serve as a successful distraction from your own personal baggage and doing the work to unpack that baggage. But, here I am, for the first time in my true adult life where I am not distracted by the process of growing a human, feeding a human with my body, riding the waves of postpartum hormones, or actively planning on doing any of the above ever again and I’m now facing what I can only liken to an identity crisis. I am no longer blinded by my ever-expanding womb when looking in the mirror; I’m now just stuck looking at the reflection of a woman and facing the brutal truth that there is little I recognize.

The reality is that my purpose is no longer so tightly wound with the process of navigating motherhood or trying to decipher what kind of mother I want to be or what my children need from me. Though I do not claim to be any thing close to an expert on the matter, I feel confident enough to say that, for the most part, I’ve got a good grip on what mothering is currently requiring of me. But everything else? The parts that have nothing to do with my children at all and, shockingly enough, likely existed long before they ever did? Well, I feel a little lost. I feel as though I’ve only known the adult version of who I am in relation to its’ defined and prioritized role as my children’s mother. To be frank, I don’t find that healthy and, even if it were healthy, I’m not so sure that I’m okay with it.

If you know me personally or even just through my writing, you know that I don’t believe I should ever feel the need to preface any of what I’m saying with how much I love my children. Because, of course I love them. I love them so much it’s painful to articulate. And even though I sure as shit didn’t see them coming, I can’t even begin to fathom living a life without them. If you know anything about me, you also know how seriously I take motherhood which I think should be evident seeing that I’m openly admitting that I’ve somehow managed to lose vital parts of myself within it. Which, I suppose, is precisely why I feel so lost. Admittedly, I’m a decisive person and very rarely struggle to know where I stand on any given topic so it feels all the more uncharacteristic to be struggling to distinguish parts of who I am that my three babies haven’t managed to already claim as their own, transforming them into a version of myself I never pictured being and, to this day, don’t always recognize.

Maybe it’s as simple as feeling uncomfortable being so unfamiliar and out-of-touch with the woman I am separate from the mother I’ve become. I’ve come to realize that parenthood is unique in the fact that it’s one of the few roles you take on that embeds itself so profoundly into every single facet of your life that it quickly becomes less of a role and more your identity and who you simply are.

Motherhood isn’t something I do. It makes up the bulk of who I am.

But it’s not all that I am.

And that missing part is the part I want to figure out.

Easy E at 3.5

Fact #1: To know Edie is to love Edie. I say this not out of maternal bias as many would assume even though, clearly, guilty as charged; rather, I’m merely repeating what has been relayed to me by every person who comes into contact with her which is that she is irresistibly lovable. She’s just one of those rare breeds of people who others find nearly impossible to not like.

Fact #2: I do not claim to understand Edie’s particular kind of crazy but I do admire her 100% commitment to it. Edie often feels a little like life itself; a chaotic mess that somehow never fails to prove being worth the wild ride. But her dedication to crazy is never without purpose; when her shit hits the fan, she goes to great lengths to explain to me or whomever has set her off exactly why she is intent on losing said shit and precisely how whomever is responsible contributed to it. She also manages to give such a compelling and passionate argument that Joe and I have a very hard time being annoyed with her meltdown at all. She feels all the feelings, she tells us about them down to the most minor detail, never wavering, taking full ownership always. And you know what? I can’t help but admire that in a woman.

Fact #3: I’ve never met another soul on earth who loves their pork products quite as much as Edie. Last year, she convinced her entire class that no lunch was worth having unless salami constituted a majority of the meal. Her enthusiasm upon opening her lunch box every day and seeing those slices of salami in their designated compartment was so contagious that it wasn’t long before every other child in the class began demanding salami from their parents. Thanks to Edie, there is likely a small army of three year olds who need to have their cholesterol levels checked. On the flip-side, Edie’s never as upset or disappointed with me as she is when we run out of “lami’s” (pronounced lah-meeze) or, god forbid, I forget to restock them at the store. One such day that Edie didn’t find salami in her lunch box, she grew very quiet, teared up, lowered and shook her head from side to side, and with her arms out to each side to drive her exasperation home, she lamented to her teacher that “There are no lamis, Ms. Carrie. My mom hurt my heart because there are no lamis.”

Fact #4: If I hadn’t been there, I’d wonder if Joe wasn’t the one to grow, labor, and birth Edie himself because they couldn’t be more alike if they tried. I often wonder when— if at all— I’m going to show up in her because, truth be told, I want to be able to take some sort of credit for that child. Beyond the obvious— looking nearly identical as babies and toddlers— they are a pair of kindred spirits that always seem to be in on the other's joke. They have the same love language and good lord do they love a cuddle. They share similar roles among their siblings and are both even-keeled by default. They’re under-the-radar comedians who always know how to lighten a mood or say or do something inappropriate. They share the most beautiful almond-shaped blue-green eyes and lashes that seem to fan out across their entire face. They take the same physical stance with their knees locked and eyes glazed over when they’re deep in observation mode. They are both fiercely loyal to those who love them them, are deeply devoted to fairness, and can’t tell a lie to save their life.

Fact #5: Edie was born a week early, on Marlo’s due date, April 29th. She made labor and delivery as easy on me as possible and came into the world twelve hours almost to the minute after my first contraction, thirty seconds after my water broke, and without so much as a single push, forcing her father to witness the business end of things because there wasn’t even a single extra second to look away. Which, in hindsight, was clear foreshadowing of her overall disposition, general sense of consideration of those around her, and her holding people to a specific level of accountability. Edie reads a room and a persons’ needs better than most grown adults I know. Straight from the womb, Edie was born with the understanding that she stands not alone, but rather in relation to the world and people around her and, as a result, possesses the innate ability to fill the space meant for her without much effort. This ability to ride the waves of life, even as a newborn, is essentially how she came to be known as Easy E. Being in Edie’s presence— and being loved by her, particularly— makes life feel a little easier, a little lighter, even if in that moment life is proving to be unfathomably hard.

foxy knoxy turns one

Joe is in Nashville this week and while catching up on our days over the phone yesterday evening after the kids were asleep, he asked me how I’m handling knowing that my boy turns one tomorrow. I thought about it for a split moment, vividly remembering how hot of a mess I was when Edie turned one, and then I answered him.

“Tomorrow night I’ll probably do what I always do and make a scene and embarrass myself with lots of ugly crying when I put him to bed but, come Friday morning when we wake up, I’ll remember that I never have to experience a first year ever again and I’ll probably go outside and do a round of celebratory back flips.”

Because it’s true.

Yes, I already mourn the inevitable thinning out of Knox’s turkey thighs and I dread the day he doesn’t willingly let me smother his chubby cheeks in kisses. Yes, I will undoubtedly miss the way he growls like an animal when he wants more food and I will forever very fondly remember the days when his favorite place was perched on my right hip but I will not miss the toll this past year put on me and my family. Yes, I wish I could go back and be a better (and less depressed) mother to Marlo while she was a baby but I do not, with a single ounce of my being, possess any desire to relive the struggle of being a new mom. And, of course I wish I could revisit Edie’s first year and give myself and Mo more grace as we established our footing as a family of four; of course I regret not relishing Edie’ baby-ness more than I did because Edie was a living, breathing inducer of baby fever like I’d never seen before and haven’t met since. But I would never want to go back and feel that lack of confidence, that maternal uncertainty, and crippling frustration ever again.

So, when a well-meaning fellow parent a few stages removed from our our current phase of parenthood tells me with utmost conviction that I’ll miss this current stage so much one day, I internally cringe. I want to correct them on the spot and defend myself and explain what the last six and a half years have felt like. And when they remind me to “be grateful,” that annoyed cringe turns into visceral rage and I have fight every urge to punch them in the throat.

Because, with all due respect, no I absolutely fucking will not miss this part of parenthood. In fact, there are large portions of all three of my kid’ first years that I’ve successfully managed to black out.

The last 365 days have proven to be not much more than a psych experiment in mental, emotional, marital, maternal, and physical survival gone rogue. I have been pushed beyond any and every boundary I previously enforced as a person, as a mother, and as a wife. I’ve expanded in ways that I now realize in hindsight were necessary and vital ones but the work required for embracing that kind of growth often left me wondering why I ever thought I was capable of being a mom to three humans and seriously doubting that I’d ever be a good one.

But I’d be lying if I said that I’m not feeling a little melancholy though, I’m fairly certain that my mood has far more to do with the finality that his birthday symbolizes more so than actual sadness because he’s turning one. Today marks the last page of a chapter whose plot largely revolved around growing, birthing, and sustaining human life. It’s a chapter that will go down as one of the most transformative, significant, consequential, and soul-affirming chapters in my life and, man, I’m eternally fucking grateful for it and for the three little people Joe and I got out of the deal.

Tonight, as Knox lays in my lap drinking his bottle while I whisper Doris Day’s ‘A Bushel and A Peck’ before laying him in his crib, I’ll ugly cry and feel all of the feelings. I spent much of the past year doubting myself and my capacity as a mother, but the truth is, surviving this last year serves as proof that I’m far more than capable of mothering these three babes of mine than I ever give myself credit for. Tomorrow morning when I wake up and go lift my one year old out of his crib, I’ll tell myself that closing this chapter means I’m also beginning a new one— a chapter whose overarching theme is simply loving the hell out of my kids.

Happy Birthday, Foxy Knoxy.

Thank you for choosing us, completing us, and for reminding of what I’m capable of.

I will love you forever.

-mama

she’s got this

How to parent.

Those three little loaded words are what I obsess over, worry about, and critique myself most hours of the day I spend doing said parenting and often continue long after the parenting portion of the day is done. But very rarely do I arrive at an answer because, as we all know, nobody— parent or not— actually knows what the fuck they’re doing. No matter how hard we try to convince everyone otherwise, we’re all blind, simply throwing darts and just hoping to god that something sticks. But on the rare occasion, like this past Saturday morning, when Mo was faced with worry and fear, instead of allowing her anxiety to win by talking herself out of giving the unfamiliar a shot, Marlo chose to be brave and believe in herself.

“I am going to try something new… And I got this.”

So, no, we don’t always know if our parenting will stick. But on that day, our first born hit a bullseye.

the poop chronicles

For years, they shit their pants as they strain and their faces burn bright red. They grunt like cavemen in random isolated corners throughout the house. They hide behind chairs while watching weird YouTube videos on the family iPad, all the while demanding that no one even look in their general vicinity as they handle their backdoor business. Not only does their poop routine rule the roost but, to add insult to injury, someone else wipes their ass afterwards. Multiple times. Every single day.

However, after consuming three giant mugs of nuclear-strength coffee mixed with my old faithful Nestlé Naturals hazelnut creamer after a very long sleepless night spent comforting a congested baby boy, do you think the favor is returned? Do you think they give me even a single minute to handle my own digestive mass exodus in peace so I don’t have to strain, risking the chance of acquiring yet another hemorrhoid which, ironically, I only began suffering from as a result of pushing their tiny newborn bodies out of my own as if I were taking the most cathartic shit of my entire life?

Spoiler: No. Because of course they don’t leave me alone to poop in peace because they’re turds (pun not intended) and, as it would appear, they enjoy watching me sweat.

To make matters worse, the humidity has caused the door frame of our downstairs powder bath to swell which prevents the door from latching which then means that locking the door is also out of the question. Conveniently, this allows my children to stand at the door, uncomfortably staring at my bare ass, conveying to me all of the most important things that surely can not wait another four minutes to be shared. And, before you ask, yes, we do have another bathroom. But, it’s upstairs and, as I’m sure you’ve experienced a time or two before, when you gotta go, sometimes you just gotta go and making it up a full flight of stairs to the other bathroom with the working latch and lockable door handle is simply out of the question.

And so I deal with my kids reaching through the crack in the door like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, only they aren’t trying to murder me. They’re only begging for cheddar bunnies and asking to see my poop when I’m done.

Moral of the story: not all heroes wear capes.

Some heroes, as it turns out, are the moms pooping at warp speed while begging their toddler to wait another thirty flippin’ seconds for the snack said toddler is convinced she’ll starve without eating that very moment even though she just finished her breakfast twelve minutes prior. Sometimes, heroes have hemorrhoids and their super power is the ability to wipe more tiny asses by lunch time than you’ve wiped in a lifetime.

Happy pooping, fellow heroes. Here’s to privacy, Preparation-H, and lockable bathroom doors.