To Be Dramatic

Same Baby, New Attitude

Salted teardrops collect at the center of my eyes. My blurring vision forces me to let go of the accumulated sadness. I can see a bit clearer. Until, I can’t again. Simultaneously, the faucet between my legs does its own share of filling to the brim; instead, with metallic rouge that spills over, returning itself to the earth that holds me up. My toes flex and point to release audible tension; even though, I told myself weeks ago that I’d stop cracking that space between my bones as a respectful nod to my future, matured joints.

With my future in mind, I recognize that the emerging year is already proving a need for the hard work, organization and discipline that will guide the years-to-follow toward relief. GOD, I pray for relief. Each time I’m prompted to rise out of my shortened rem cycle, I beg for grace and more space for myself. No moment alone is ever long enough. Consistent, premature interruptions by a toddler who expresses her need for everything to revolve around her have been taking a toll on me. But, this is just the beginning.

My days are distracted messes. They are commitments to constant clean up of garbage, toys, and perspective. They tug my brain between early development and critical thinking with quickness. No wonder the rare found idle time is flooded with anxieties and confused priorities. My mind tires of squeals and whines. It cringes at the sing-songy voice that grandparents utilize as a way to keep the good vibes going. My face, even more stoic, releases its slight smirk as I take each moment to the chin. Ironically, I scan articles, videos, and memes in search of insight on the best techniques and prayers for staying connected to my own experience. An alternative to going through every moment while planning for the next MUST exist. And, I will find it [for me]. I will find my liberation.

“Oh my gosh, there’s dried up chicken nugget on the floor.” Not something I thought I’d ever say or type. Not a way I ever thought I’d start a paragraph, let alone a morning. It was a quiet one — yesterday’s morning. We rose and cuddled. We listened for raindrops on the skylight. We giggled about stars and colors and arms before needing to explore the space we call home. She knew that there just HAD to be somebody downstairs. Probably one of her favorite somebodies. Her grandparents reign supreme on the hierarchy of favorite somebodies. To her surprise, it was only us. For the first time since infancy, there was a relatively peaceful approach to our day. Breakfast was had. Side-A of a record was spun. Four sections of braids were done. All of this occurred prior to her request for her morning programs. It felt as if we were in agreement with the importance of spending time together without OD background noise and attention hogging pictures on a screen.

Lost in the connection to wifi is valued privacy. My rewired brain has addicted itself to a modern life. This modern life not providing much retreat from the LED lights that flash immediate gratification and falsified connection. What is everyone else doing? Are they trying to connect with me? I hate these hypervigilant dungeons of thought and self-criticism. What would my experience of mothering be like if I had my child just 25 years earlier? What activities would we create? Would we be less dependent on outside validation? Would we connect more? I spent a whole seven minutes allowing myself to sit with babe and watch a low stimulating reef cam. We watched fish come in and out of view. Some would acknowledge the object capturing the footage, others couldn’t care less. For that instant, I sat with her in my arms, not worried about who, what, when, where, why and how. A remembrance of the value of quality time and simple enjoyment temporarily exiled the stress of masking. I could be free in those few moments. I could be here unapologetically.

I’ve grappled with these kinds of questions my entire adult life. Contemplating and intellectualizing the richness I’d feel if I let go of the world that I found myself in. If I took control of my justified bad habits and realigned myself with my soul’s desire. If I prioritize my connection to the land that made me and would eventually take me in as nutrients for the next generations. What nutrients would I be supplying? More worry? More stress? More hate? More jealousy? More doubt? More disconnection? More comparison? More harm than good.

I didn’t realize how exhausting it would be to stay aligned with my desires as I focus so much of my energy on another’s well being. But, I guess, now that I type it out, it makes sense. I crave silence. I’ve traded lyric-driven music for minimally stimulating instrumentals. My body craves solitude and less expectation of touch. My soul craves space and stronger boundaries. The transformational period that began when my body became a vessel for someone else’s growth, continues to challenge my approach to living. It continues to alchemize my understanding of myself and my environment. This birth has introduced me to death. What must die for me to become my greatest version?

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.

Abby xx