Let me tell you about motherhood, About how my mind won’t quiet down. Even when I finally get time to myself, I’m still working against a racing mind. My eyes are closed and I fall into the table sinking deep. The pressure is more than it used to be, The muscles softer, stretched, and worked more than they ever did before being mama. Round belly I notice where I used to pull it in. I exhale, tired of my critic. I decide to just let myself be. I stand in the shower for a long time, I feel the salt run down my skin. I sip tea that is hot, And worry if the mint is ok for milk supply, I wonder what Ama is doing, if he is wondering about me, Feel where my mind doesn’t want to let go, I feel embarrassed, my skin gets hot. Try to enjoy the time away- I say. I wonder how long it’s been. My body is warm underneath. . My mind unwinds more. I wonder if it will ever sit still again. I say a prayer in gratitude. For the women, for the village. For my son. . Let me tell you about perfectionism. A voice that I can’t get away from. It keeps me small, and alone. Leaves me rushing through the day with urgency, Trying to DO instead of be. It isn’t the thing that makes me a happy mama, it’s just there, wrapping around me like a climbing vine. The voice sells me lies and I listen. So often mine says just be like everyone else, just write the perfect things... Don’t think that thought. Or have that need. My shoulders are tight. I breathe down into my belly and legs. I soften. Just a Little. . Let me tell you about the moments the women remind each other that we are ok. And we are doing it right. And we are growing. Through the long nights, and dark thoughts. . Try to let go, I say, turning on the shower. I relax a little more. I let my belly be soft. I fill a little more tea into my cup. I breathe the steam into my lungs. feel the tile under my feet. . Motherhood is all of these thoughts. It’s the ideas that don’t find their way into words on a page. A racing mind on a massage table. Cold mountain air. The softness of your little voice, your fingers on my skin. Telling me stories of another world. I listen, and what I can hear is our breath. In and out. Motherhood writing Originally Written and Published Oct 2020- when my son was 14 months old. Inspired by Bec Ellis
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