On My Mama

Celebrating life in all its glory

Herb, my granddad, drove from SC to smoke some ribs. He used to do that drive every summer with his smoker. It’s been a long time since that last time I tasted his dry rubbed ribs.

He said he wanted to cook for some people. And we wanted him to. But not how that culinary school told him to. All those rules and regulations. We just wanted to feel something when we put it on our tastebuds. We’ve been waiting — I’ve been waiting since I was 13 to taste these ribs again. To smell the sweet hickory wood, nursed by my grandfather around the clock for hours upon hours. Running on no sleep, an egg sandwich from the morning before and an emotional support, thermos-warm cup of coffee. He thrives on that type of shit. The sacrifice off his back for those who come to enjoy the outcome. The smiles, the “compliments to the chef” are what he lives for. Being able to feed his people. I respect that. And doing just that made his 77th birthday, his “best one yet.” That and the two football games.

I struggled in that last paragraph not to relate it all back to mothering. It’s natural to relate your situation to another’s. In those moments of sharing and relating is where we find some comfort for the inevitable loneliness of the human experience. It’s common for me to feel alone in mothering, it’s an estranging process to become a mother. That estranging invites an understanding community of women who know what it’s like to be in that liminal space — limboing between consciousness and dissociation. It’s something that I continue to experience. The estrangement effects more than just the mother. It opens up space for non-birthing people to be openly curious about the subject. Baby fever, as it’s more commonly labeled — the curiosity of procreation. Also very natural.

I’m more curious about it now that I’ve experienced it. Birthing. It is as they say: absolutely mind altering, and space-demanding. It’s become a money-hungry, doctor-controlled, sterilized, fluorescent-lit, step-by-step procedure that leaves little understanding of the nature of the womb. A power move was made to bring births into a medically controlled environment. The room for varying experiences has been rented out by these medical securities. I wonder how a birth away from these “tools” feels. What kind of precedence that puts on a new life. Not being told that you have to come out on a set timeline. Not having as much medical intervention. A free birth. If the world had more free births, if America alone had more free births, what would we learn about ourselves? Are we too scared to look?

I was scared. I was scared to let myself be free in the company I chose. I reflect often about what I would’ve done differently in my birthing experience. The decisions I made before birthing were full of naïveté, a word with a meaning that I recognize as truth for a lot of my life before birthing, and often times afterwards. There’s just so much that I don’t know. So much — I couldn’t possibly have the mental or minute capacity for it all. And I don’t care to know it all. I don’t care to know anything. I do care to validate the human experience in its entirety.

I sat and cried for the woman’s experience today. I sat and cried because I realized how invalidating it is to simply be a woman. Not much is good enough for men or other women. Someone is often ordering some different action or commenting on how to be a “better” kind of woman, especially once you have a kid. I find liberation in wearing my hoochie daddy outfits while I push a stroller. I have never been one for the straight and narrow. I’ve always been an abstract, rebellious one, so I approach mothering with the naturalness of my being. And often times it leads to discomfort in others, followed closely by uncomfortable, but necessary conversations.

“You dress like you don’t have a kid.” The truth is quite the opposite. Because I have a kid, and because I breastfeed said kid, I wear things that allow for easy access to my boobs. (Btw: she asks for boobie now by name! What?!)

“She’s getting too old to be on your tit, you really wanna keep nursing?” A forceful, suggesting question that leaves no space for support, only a questioning of a child’s natural development.

“Don’t you wanna have time for yourself? Put her in daycare.” The push the be detached in constant. But I have been seriously thinking about daycare. I’m tired of being a parent more often than I’d like to admit. I need more time for myself. And she’d probably like being with other kids a couple days a week. But I am also aware of the attachment style I desire to nurture in order for her to move in the world in a secure way. Too often do we treat babies with the expectations of being fully adjusted to the word at very young ages, though most adults still struggle to feel secure in their attachment styles. I am willing to sacrifice my resentment for trust in human development.

Because it’s natural.

When women’s issues are brought up, when birthing issues are mentioned, when a breastfeeding woman nurses her child in public, rarely are these very natural ways of being validated. There are so many other pressing issues in the world. Why care about this one that directly affects every single human being on the planet?

On my mama, you wouldn’t be here without yours!

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.

Abby xx