Thank God For The Internet
A Series Of Unfortunate Events, never ending postpartum, the search for individual pleasure and asking for help
A blown tire on my Kia Soul left babe and I stranded on the off ramp of the interstate for a few hours some weeks ago. An unpredictable moment demanding presence and fast problem solving — two skills I have been practicing since third grade math. She was unfazed by the randomness of being on the side of the road, entertained by a baby proof digital camera and an hour long episode of Miss Rachel, whose net-worth according to a quick click into google search is a high-pitched $10 million. I’ve probably personally given her at least $200 worth of my screen-time over the past 6 months. I can’t imagine life without the easily accessible screen that calms the emotions of a toddler. Simply saying the name will silence a noisy and squirmy attempt at buckling her up. And for that sole reason, I am offering the person who invented the internet a sloppy *BESO*! Couldn’t have done it without ya! I just googled that, too, and it was credited to a group of people (probably aliens) and Nikola Tesla.
Since becoming a MILF ;), I have been pretty adamant about documentation. I think it’s embedded in the parent gene, resurfacing from the ancestral memory to repeatedly remind us that each moment must be cherished. Adding to this archival nature is the content based digital world we live in now. With this pressure to share and constantly create, the relationship with my daughter and the relationship I have with social media combine to tokenize the innocence of our relationship and the growth that we experience in getting to know each other. With this acknowledgment of the times we live in, and my own desire to give honor to the scrapbook-loving part of me, I find refuge in the words of my sister, Kennedi, who mentioned in a recent artist talk, her need to find a balance between documenting and witnessing with her own eyes the growth of her own son and my baby’s BFF, Atlas J.
Often times I think about who I would be, where I would be, what I’d be doing at any moment if I didn’t spend majority of my time finding ways to entertain my mini-me. Those sulky thoughts are often interrupted by an overwhelming need to be accepting of what is. Choosing to become a mother was the best and the worst decision in my life. I’m still trying to accept that both can be true.
My blood craves the warm rush of fermented agave. My throat begs for the burn that weakens my lungs with the vapors of green leaves wrapped in brown ones. My mouth cringes at the thought of curving its corners up in response to anything but the quadruple-toothed grin from my womb flower. I’m jaded. I’ve forgotten how to have fun. For a year and a half (not including my pregnancy), I have spent most of my time gathering disciplined energy to show up for my baby everyday. The mental and physical load I have decided to take on in becoming a mother has left me unaware of how to show up for myself and what I even enjoy doing on my own anymore. I told my BD that my birthday wishlist consists of three things: more weed, more orgasms, and more fun. More adult stuff. More connection to adult human beings, though I often find a hard time relating to one’s that have no kids. My energy levels are often too low for me to put effort into finding ways to connect with those my age. These past almost two years of my life have been nearly a full sacrifice to this little being with no awareness of the amount of work it takes to not go insane. There is no way for me to remain a mentally stable being without asking for help from my family and supportive friends, including my BD. I’m grateful to be learning to ask for moments of me time with less guilt.
Babies smell fresh. Like clean linen dipped in Florida water and rich blood. Not like the empty blood that leaks from a woman’s vagina during her moon time, but the blood that welcomes a measured-monthly life changing fetus. But, even sweeter than the smell of a newborn is the slight increase of ph levels and immune strength that leaks from a toddlers neck. How come nobody talks about that smell? The smell of getting older. The smell of independence and more sleep (hopefully).
I’ve always been a sweaty Homo sapiens. I get it from my daddy. Or at least that’s what I used to proudly share with my formerly five-year-old buddies on the playground. This, of course, didn’t magically go away during my pregnancy. My musk made it a point to presently receive the honor and attention in those postpartum shower fasts. There were days that I’d christen my stretch crop tops in the liquid gold that dripped from my breasts and the ripeness of my unshaved pits. As postpartum continues, I can feel my hormones navigating closer to regulation. My pits are less smelly. My period seems to be returning more frequently, and my appetite is normalizing itself, even amidst breastfeeding cravings. My body is remembering itself, even if my mind feels a little lost. From my experience, the mind tends to be the last thing to catch up.
Playground sounds:
THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
Abby xx