Getting Jumped In

by the terrific two's

Becoming settled into motherhood is a lie. Two and a half years in and I’m just as flustered with the amount of time and energy dedicated to caring for someone else. I thought it would’ve rounded out by now, yet here I am, typing about the same overwhelm and lack of idle time that I began this publication with. [My dad says] it’s on brand for something so mundane and repetitive to inspire such redundant content.

When I started writing, I hoped to offer the gritty sides of mothering and becoming a mother, which is why I began with my pregnancy. Flashbacks of the times when my stomach curdled at the thought of black bean patties or the smell of my car’s interior, bring me an off-putting sense of joy and relief. The simplicity of being the container, the house of a growing child, barely prepared me for the immediate demands of a developing human being. Since her arrival, my car has been jumped in by melted popsicles, ripe diapers and incense bundles attempting to cover the stench of a mother’s vehicle in shambles.

I miss it—my pregnancy. I miss the adrenaline that fueled my research for the best bottle nipples and the most practical cloth diapers. I miss the inherent excitement to see myself transform into a version that felt new. The wonder of seeing the world shift around me pushed me to keep trying to make sense of it all. I guess what I’m trying to say is: baby fever has made a lap around me. It demands that I acknowledge its existence. Even knowing I will be having no more babies anytime soon, my spirit perks up upon sight of a child—one of the many infantile superpowers.

The biological hope for more children has been alchemized by fire. A fire fueled by the heat of mom rage and disappointment in how things manifested. Transmutation hasn’t completely derailed my thoughts of future children though—if I’ll have them, if I’ll find an honorable suitor, how old I’ll be, if I’ll be willing to start over. My parents had my brother and me back to back, making us Irish twins. We’re eleven months apart, so for 1 month and 10 days out of the year, we are the same age. This year, we’re both 27.

In the trenches of the postpartum period, I couldn’t have imagined having another so soon after my first. My own mother, who was truly jumped into motherhood by two under 2, embodies the strength and resilience needed to show up thorough and organized in our lives. She clearly knew what she was doing having us so close. Her birth of me was smooth. According to her, I fell right out. Considering her body had just done that whole thing just 11 months before, it was only right that I plopped out while the doctor was on his break. Knowing this makes me think that having a sibling close in age is gratifying in many ways. I also find having a solid recovery window can create a more sustainable spread. But, is it more sustainable to use all energy at once and have more recovery time on the back end, or to get the recovery in when it’s demanded so that you’re properly prepared for the next cycle of exertion?

Though it’s been quick, it hasn’t been hard for me to accept that my daughter will be three years earth side in April. Cliché after cliché proves its relatability as we grow together—it all goes by so fast. Just as her interest in a snack that she just asked for fades, so does her sweet baby smell and her unassuming preferences for consumption. Luckily, I’m still the HBIC, though she would beg to differ.

A seemingly consistent rhythm in our daily routines and balance in how we spend our time together has surfaced momentarily. I’m feeling a bit less burnt out, so I can do things like find joy in browsing through library books to bring home. Here is our current haul:

This Libra season brought me some wonder. It moved my brother across the country. It reminded me of the importance of community—something I didn’t prioritize before having a baby. It confirmed the lingering existentialism that leads my Saturn return to evolve my being into refined versions. Versions with gold teeth induced smiles and gliding hips that inspire the movement of stagnancy. It brought me back to the forefront of the yearly celebration of my existence.

I am a real person again, and I could always be more grateful.

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.

Abby xx