Being a mom is great in a lot of ways. But it has this way of making you invisible. Your identity is no longer yours, no longer this distinct tangible thing you can send into the world. you become a sort of shapeless nameless mass. I’m not christa, I’m just someone’s mom. Yes yes of course it’s rewarding, fulfilling, even fun. your tiny silly little life is given this regal and grand purpose, blah blah blah.
But it’s a pretty shit deal, for women, anyway.
And when you add getting old on top of that?
The horror.
I am a middle aged single mom. I crochet for fuck’s sake. I may as well be dead. But I think even death would offer more relevancy.
You know what I carry with me in my bag? (Besides all the usual boring mom stuff.) A telescopic back scratcher. Cause sometimes when I’m out and about running my mom errands, my back itches and I can’t reach it and what would I do then? WHAT WOULD I DO?
And how do I handle it?
I rage rage against the dying of the light by… bitching and moaning about my stupid boring EASY life, a life in which my biggest problem is that I am not being SEEN. People living in Beirut think they have problems? Listen to this: no one pays attention to me.
I can’t even stand myself.
But then I pick up my boys from the airport and bring them home and when my little one walks in and takes a deep breath and says “oh i missed this smell, it smells like home” I realize that what I do and what I am matters to at least one person.
It makes me feel better.
I am still really sick of myself though.