"Mama"

A lot of you (like, a lot) will not know that I am a writer. It's something that used to be a huge part of my life but kind of got put on the back burner for a few years...because mental health. But, thanks to a lot of encouragement, I started writing again this year. I never share my writing before it's published (and this one has been submitted to a very niche literary magazine so we'll see what happens) but I had the urge to share it today. I'm rusty. Like you may need a tetanus shot rusty. Let's blame the quarantine. I think it just felt fitting given the current climate. 

We're all tired. 

We're stretched thin in so many directions without much certainty. It's hard. 

And while I'm all about girl power and overcoming it's okay to feel that hard too, live in it. 

I hope this helps some of you feel seen during the wild broken down roller coaster that is 2020. You're loved. 

Mama

“Mama! Mama!” Her tiny arms reached upward, demanding me to hold her. Such a simple thing. A simple insistence. In her haste to be comforted she is not concerned with anything else. She looks past my dark circled eyes and sagging shoulders. My hair is unwashed and wild. Bits and pieces sticking out of the hair tie I haphazardly placed days ago. The exhaustion radiates from inside of me but she doesn’t see it. She sees only her place of refuge as the fever that’s raged inside of her for days still burns. Her cheeks are red and warm so I give her another dose of medicine. My body sinks and I sigh. I am tired. 

It’s a different kind of tired. Not the tired that comes from endless loads of laundry or the things that keep me busy throughout the day. It’s not a trivial kind of tired. It’s a tired that I feel in my bones. In my limbs. It’s a tired that comes from sleepless nights when everyone else is quiet. Laying down in bed just to be woken again, for the umpteeth time, to care for someone else. A tired that comes after years of being a food source; always within reach and never dry. A tired that can only be felt after my body has been split open and healed over and over again. Sustaining life is tiring. 

Some days I can look beyond the exhaustion; pick up my dragging feet. Some days I can tickle and chase and feel whole. Other days though, I wallow in it. Achy and weary I take cover in my bed and let them fend for themselves; not quite feral but not cared for on a level they’re used to. Those days it’s all I can do to keep my mind from wandering. From wondering how I’m failing so miserably at this and  what I could be missing. So many experiences that will be left unlived; forgotten in a corner of my mind like old toys. Some days it almost feels like this will consume me; the duties never ending. There is always a need. Some days I go through the motions on auto-pilot and find no joy. And then the immense guilt sets in. I should appreciate it more. Children don’t last, they say. 

“Mama” again she’s at my feet reaching skyward. This time her voice is softer; less demanding. Her chubby fingers curl toward me and beckon me in. She feels heavy in my arms as her head sinks into my body. She is soft and warm. My breath slows to match hers and our chests rise and fall together. She’s always really been an extension of me. We move in unison, our bodies linked in a unique way that only they can be. I can feel the oxytocin rushing over me like a wave of relief. Her eyelashes  flutter against my collar bone. Fighting to stay open until they can’t anymore. Her fight is gone and she sinks into a comfortable sleep; her breaths heavy and slow. I lean down and kiss the crown of her head gently. I can smell her sweet sweat mixed with honey shampoo. I want to burn the smell of her into my brain. I want to force myself to memorize the weight of her body curled into my chest. The exhaustion still radiates, but it is a slower burn. I am where I want to be.