Domestic Bliss: or what it means to mother oneself
It's a little bit funny this feeling inside...yes, I watched Rocketman recently. It's a cool biopic about Elton John starring his killer tunes. The bit that really got me (and I don't think this is too much of a spoiler) was the realisation that he needed to embrace his wounded inner child. The moment he could stop blaming his parents and take responsibility for nurturing that hurt little fellow is the turning point that leads to his happily ever after.
A year ago I wrote the following rant after a particularly grueling school holiday. I never hit publish because I felt it was too whiney, too ungrateful. As I sat down today to write about how thankful I'm feeling as I see my domestic life in a new light that suddenly casts my cage as an incubator and all my excuses as opportunities, I remembered how I felt not too long ago.
So this is then: -
I was highly skeptical as a feminist young woman about the merits of family life for women. I could see quite clearly the emotional burden placed on women within the nuclear family model. What an unhealthy and unrealistic framework to hang everyone's hopes and dreams on. I remember reading about the relationship between capitalism and this inherently toxic breeding ground for humans when I was a graduate student and married by then, despite my best intentions.
Over seven years of marriage and much challenging travel, including moving to New York to pursue aforementioned master's degree after just one year of marriage, my lovely kind sensitive husband and I managed to iron out a lot of the kinks and expectations that can run seaworthy marriages aground.
Then came children. Oh boy. To say that it knocked the wind out of my sails would be putting it mildly. These much longed for little beings can put a helluva strain on any marriage. It takes a village. But if you find yourself in a new city, miles from any family or friends, it takes incredible good fortune to weather the storms.
After some weeks of full-out mothering of the nursing, schooling, ballet-momming and holiday survival caliber I feel completely wrung out. It's awesome to hear inspiring women talk about holing themselves in their closets at 4am so that they can get their writing done. I'm just amazed that children, husband and I are all still in the land of the living.
The problem with parenting is that it just doesn't stop. Not for a moment.
There is no holiday.
Once you're in it, you're in it for life.
I'm on a lot of online groups where people ask for and receive advice on how the hell to survive this shitshow.
So many offer platitudes of the "enjoy every moment, you'll miss it when it's over" sort.
I'm sorry. That might be true for those Earth Mother types, but for those of us who can't help grieving our lost selves -- vasbyt, this too shall pass?
Now: -
I stand by a lot of what I wrote then.
I also realise more and more how pedantic I need to be about my mental health. This includes catching every thought in its nascency and deciding whether I'd like to believe it or not.
Basically, is anything worth sacrificing your peace of mind for?
What good does it do you, your loved ones, the world if you're perpetually pissed off?
We celebrated 18 years of marriage last weekend and really enjoyed one another's company. Two have become four. We went to play in the snow, there wasn't any, we had a ball anyway. We were blissfully sans electricity and in the absence of that constant hum and distraction, an opportunity for stillness and connection.
My dear husband has agreed to hold me accountable so that I can get back onto the writing wagon. Writing is a really strange thing, so like the whole project of living a life. Forever and a day you labour in solitude, in the mansions and wastelands of the mind. None of it is real.
So how do you believe in it?
How do you believe in yourself?
You just do, because the alternative is bleak.
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| Inspired by David Brooks: The Quest for a Moral Life |
So this is then: -
I was highly skeptical as a feminist young woman about the merits of family life for women. I could see quite clearly the emotional burden placed on women within the nuclear family model. What an unhealthy and unrealistic framework to hang everyone's hopes and dreams on. I remember reading about the relationship between capitalism and this inherently toxic breeding ground for humans when I was a graduate student and married by then, despite my best intentions.
Over seven years of marriage and much challenging travel, including moving to New York to pursue aforementioned master's degree after just one year of marriage, my lovely kind sensitive husband and I managed to iron out a lot of the kinks and expectations that can run seaworthy marriages aground.
Then came children. Oh boy. To say that it knocked the wind out of my sails would be putting it mildly. These much longed for little beings can put a helluva strain on any marriage. It takes a village. But if you find yourself in a new city, miles from any family or friends, it takes incredible good fortune to weather the storms.
After some weeks of full-out mothering of the nursing, schooling, ballet-momming and holiday survival caliber I feel completely wrung out. It's awesome to hear inspiring women talk about holing themselves in their closets at 4am so that they can get their writing done. I'm just amazed that children, husband and I are all still in the land of the living.
The problem with parenting is that it just doesn't stop. Not for a moment.
There is no holiday.
Once you're in it, you're in it for life.
I'm on a lot of online groups where people ask for and receive advice on how the hell to survive this shitshow.
So many offer platitudes of the "enjoy every moment, you'll miss it when it's over" sort.
I'm sorry. That might be true for those Earth Mother types, but for those of us who can't help grieving our lost selves -- vasbyt, this too shall pass?
Now: -
I stand by a lot of what I wrote then.
I also realise more and more how pedantic I need to be about my mental health. This includes catching every thought in its nascency and deciding whether I'd like to believe it or not.
Basically, is anything worth sacrificing your peace of mind for?
What good does it do you, your loved ones, the world if you're perpetually pissed off?
We celebrated 18 years of marriage last weekend and really enjoyed one another's company. Two have become four. We went to play in the snow, there wasn't any, we had a ball anyway. We were blissfully sans electricity and in the absence of that constant hum and distraction, an opportunity for stillness and connection.
My dear husband has agreed to hold me accountable so that I can get back onto the writing wagon. Writing is a really strange thing, so like the whole project of living a life. Forever and a day you labour in solitude, in the mansions and wastelands of the mind. None of it is real.
So how do you believe in it?
How do you believe in yourself?
You just do, because the alternative is bleak.
Subscribe to Foot Sore & Fancy Free by Email
And please verify your email address (check your junkmail!)
Thanks :)
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