Quite the Complicated Dish
A reflection on learning how to be a mother.
I am pulled from sleep by my youngest rolling around in my bed. He wants to be carried into the playroom, and he isn’t happy that I’m taking so long to wake up. My oldest starts to cry on the other side of me because he wants to keep sleeping, and he doesn’t want me to leave. And so the day begins.
With toddler in arms and my preschooler trailing behind me in tears, we walk into the living room and let Juniper out of her crate. She is wiggly with excitement. After a few snuggles, my oldest goes to the playroom to find some cars, and my youngest lets me know his tummy hurts, which I generally interpret to mean he is ready for breakfast. I open the back door for Juniper and pour my youngest a bowl of cereal. Of course, I don’t do it right—it’s quite a complicated dish, after all. As I attempt a second bowl, I catch a glimpse of our dog laying in the grass, happily shredding a box of cardboard. I pour a cup of coffee. “I should really drink water first,” I think, but I don’t. Instead, I take a sip of coffee, and then I let it grow cold while I make toast for myself and my oldest child. He wants only cheese toast, but when he sees that I plate myself a slice of cheese and a slice of buttered toast, he wants buttered toast as well. I explain why he can’t eat my breakfast as I walk to the kitchen table, only to give in five minutes later and split the buttered toast between the three of us, youngest included. (Because he has also decided that he wants my toast.) Juniper, who has come inside after her cardboard massacre, goes back into the crate, and I breathe a prayer of gratitude for a semi-peaceful breakfast.
When we finish eating, the kids play and I wrangle them into clothes that they have no interest in wearing, as they much prefer to live life in the nude. I let Juniper out of the crate too soon, and she steals spare pieces of laundry out of my bedroom while I’m getting myself dressed. I close the door. She slinks away and returns with a lovey from the kids room. (Of course, they didn’t shut their door when they ran from their room into mine last night, so I shut that one, too.) A little later, while I am busy transferring poop from the training potty to the real one, she steals juice and cereal off the kitchen table where the boys have left their breakfast dishes. I yell at Juniper. The kids yell at Juniper. The kids run shrieking circles around Juniper. I yell at the kids. I finish with the potty, and finally, with everyone dressed, I shuffle the kids out the door and into the double stroller waiting on the stoop. Once the boys are properly fastened, I go back inside and harness Juniper, attach her leash, and hold her back while I lock the door. I maneuver the stroller one-handed off the stoop, down the drive, and onto the sidewalk. And then it’s a long walk to tire her out. I am grateful for the cloud cover, grateful it isn’t raining, and grateful that she doesn’t pull as much as she could. I am not grateful for our cheap double stroller that feels like I’m pushing a wagon full of bricks uphill. By the time we turn the corner for home, I am breathless, and I am grateful for air-conditioning.
*
I have promised my oldest child a trip to the Dollar Tree today, so that he can spend his allowance on Hot Wheels. Before we leave, I pack snacks. I don’t know where we are going, but I want to be out of this house. Juniper is hot and tired and sleeping in the entryway. The boys are quietly playing with trucks. I alternate sips of water and coffee and double check all of our bags. The boys come into the kitchen as I finish up, asking for water. Juniper comes, too. One child spits his water on her, and then on the floor, and I summon every ounce of calm I have in my body to keep from yelling at him. I make him wipe it up and consider not going to the Dollar Tree at all. Why is no one able to control their impulses today? Maybe he just really needs to get outside and move his body? With gritted teeth, I tell the boys that we are leaving now and remind them that the first one to the car gets to choose the music. Midway down the hall, my oldest turns around and decides to let Juniper out of her crate. (Clearly, the youngest one gets to choose the music.) I put the dog back, grab the boys by the hands and lead them to the car. And then I breathe a prayer of thanks that everyone is finally still and buckled in.
While I am driving to the Dollar Tree, I have a great idea. I’ll take the boys to the lake since it’s not too hot. I order food from Chipotle while we are in the parking lot, and I tell the boys my plan—“We are going to the lake!” I tell them they can each pick out a sand toy inside since I didn’t bring any beach toys with us. I’m excited about this plan, and I build it up in my head. We can have a picnic, play at the playground, dig in the sand, and walk the trails. I imagine a lovely day spent romping around under the trees and splashing through cool water.
The Dollar Tree itself is mostly uneventful—the boys deliberate over trucks, eventually they each choose one, and we wait in line to pay. By the time we reach the register, my oldest has decided he would rather go home and play with his new truck instead of going to the lake. I tell him we can go somewhere else, but I make him put the sand toys back. In the car, I explain, again, slightly exasperated this time, why I wanted to go to the lake in the first place. I remind him of all the fun things we can do, which succeeds in making him want to go, but now he is in tears over the sand toys, and he is livid that I won’t go back in and buy them. We pick up the food, park at the YMCA, where there are public picnic tables, and we eat our food mostly in silence. I am getting more and more frustrated by the minute—my youngest refuses to eat, my oldest keeps telling me that he just wants to go home. I hear him, but it is a shift day, which means I have twenty-four hours of solo children+dog care, and the thought of seven hours at home between now and bedtime makes me nauseous. I counter his ideas with alternate playground suggestions. Unable to keep my mouth shut, I justify my reasons for not wanting to go home. I can’t keep my frustration from bubbling out in the spew. This is one of my worst qualities, something I never knew about myself until I became a mother—I say too much and, often, I say it too loudly. I desperately want to raise kids without shame. I want them to have happy memories of these years at home with me. But I am not a happy person by nature. I am prone to depression, I struggle often with anxiety, I zone out when I’m overwhelmed, and I regularly fantasize about slipping into some kind of void whenever things are too hard, when the sounds of parenting are too loud, or whenever I feel like I’ve failed too big, too many times.
I pack up the food, get the kids back in the car, and we drive to a playground in town—one that’s closer to our house. I apologize snarkily to my kids at first, which is basically just shame in disguise. “I’m sorry I gave you the choice,” I say. “I should never have asked your opinion about the lake.” We pull into the parking lot of the playground, and I start unbuckling my toddler. Only when he is all the way out, after the diaper bag is already slung over my shoulder, do I see the white, triangular sign that reads: PARKING LOT CLOSES AT 2PM TODAY. It is 1:54. Defeated, angry, tired… we go home.
*
It’s only a short drive, but as I resign myself to going back home, to my peculiar sanctuary-prison, I watch my kid in the rearview mirror. He is so excited. He can’t wait to play with his truck. I realize he wasn’t trying to be difficult today—he just really wanted to play with this new toy. It’s then that the epiphany strikes: isn’t it ironic how similar my tantrums are to his? I, too, didn’t want my plans to change. I wanted things my way. I had planned something, in my opinion, and no one was grateful. I was feeling unheard, unseen. But so was he. Both of us feeling alone, together. With the great exception being that he is a child learning to control his emotions, and I am grown up who should know better. I tell him so when we get home, and it is a sincere apology this time.
I wish I could say the rest of the day was better. Parts of it were—the boys played with trucks, we did some art together. Juniper tried to eat the art. She stole the plastic water cup from our watercolor set, an old Tupperware, a wooden truck, a wooden trailer, some lint from the laundry room trash can. We took her on a walk to alleviate the energy, but even after, she continued to pace the house, always on the lookout for something new to claim. We ordered pizza and watched a movie, 101 Dalmatians—our first movie night without my husband at home. But after, the boys were still so wired—one from a desperate need for sleep, the other from the consequences of a too-late nap. And, in the end, I had to take away their bin of trucks—their most beloved possession. I promised to return the bin to them tomorrow if: 1) they went straight to bed after brushing their teeth, 2) they were still and quiet through bedtime stories, and 3) they went right to sleep after books and lullabies. (They mostly did.)
I slip out of the dark bedroom once the boys are asleep. My truck solution worked, but I feel defeated. I hate parenting this way. This out-of-desperation strategy of threatening to take something away. I see the social world of mothers with their pristine houses and linen-clad children—always painting and baking and wading through streams with double or triple the number of kids that I have. And even though I know it’s all curated, I still compare. I never feel like I am mothering the way I desire. Some days I am inspired to press into this role more fully; other days, I want to give up and get a job. When I am left wanting, I feel the guilt of not soaking up these precious days. I feel the sting of the years passing by, and I know that I am one of the lucky ones. I have all this time with my boys. Mothering is hard, but it is also threaded with joy if I have eyes to see it. That said—knowing you’re lucky, knowing what you should do, doesn’t make it easier. My whole life has been lived this way, and I’m not sure how to fix what’s broken. I’m not sure how to shake the discontent, the feeling of grass growing greener somewhere else, the disappointment of not measuring up to my own expectations, the constant fear of traumatizing my children. I’m not sure how to take a breath and relax into motherhood—into personhood, for that matter—how to let it all come naturally, to laugh as my day ebbs and flows. I try to hold us all together. But the holding splinters me like a chisel, carving out a crack in an iceberg, and I’m never sure when I just might break in two. How desperately I want to get this right. How desperately out of reach it often feels. So here I sit, writing the day into the void, because bringing the dark into the light is sometimes the only way I know to move forward.
With love,
Jenica
Everyday Joy
Words of Jubilee
I’m not always sure what to share on this platform, or how much to share. But I found this quote by Dave Eggers, from his memoir A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and I was reminded of how important it is to just share. To write the things that would help me feel less alone. Because that’s how we reveal our humanity, and maybe in doing so, in revealing our humanity, maybe we will all actually be a little less alone.
“…like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul, we [feel that to] identify our secrets, our pasts and their blotches, with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself. But it’s just the opposite, more is more—more bleeding, more giving.”
-Dave Eggers
A Few Good Things:
My friend Sara wrote a piece on the many possible iterations of our lives, and it is lovely. She’s a friend from a decade ago, when we were both pursing creative writing degrees, and her words have always been excellent.
I also enjoyed Micha Boyette’s article on the hummingbird heart, over at her Substack The Slow Way. I’ll be thinking about this idea for a while.
Honestly, two is all I can think of this week. Send me your good things.
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Oh man. This one cut straight through. I felt like I was living a day out of my own life, the frustration and weariness and struggle to hold it all together, and all the guilt and shame from not doing it perfectly (or even particularly well most days). I so appreciate you sharing, both this reflection and all the others like it. Like what you said, it's good to feel less alone. Your boys are right, and they are so lucky to have you. Prayers as we continue to grow and find our way. Thanks for sharing.
(Also a p.s. to add, thanks for including me :) so much fun get read each others words again all these years later!)