Some days I feel as though it is simply misplaced – like a lost sock – lamentable, potentially permanent and large part of myself but not really the end of the world. On others it feels completely sucked into the black hole of nappies, toys and tracksuit pants, never to be seen again. And sometimes it feels completely defined and inspired by the mini people clutching at my legs, pulling at my hair and clinging to my heart. ‘Myself’ has become a variable concept.
Never in my life have I been more torn and more whole at the same time. Becoming a mother has so completely redefined my dreams and my goals that often I hardly recognise myself – in both positive and negative ways. On the good days I am so strongly reassured of my vocation; rejoicing in the milestones and minutia I have the privilege of experiencing in the daily tasks of raising my own little people. On the less good days I yearn for an intellectual outlet and mourn the loss of academic stimulation, professional deadlines, financial rewards and dialogue that extends beyond point, identify, repeat… and then there are the dark days when it feels like nothing will save me except awful karaoke and tequila.
I know it might not sound like it, and I wonder if it only really makes sense to parents (?), but despite the bad days, there is no space for serious contemplation of even possibly loving life more without my kids. In the less great moments I could simultaneously sell my soul for access to a Time-Turner, TARDIS, or pair of ruby red slippers (select according to your taste in fantastical impossibilities) and dream about doing everything all over again in exactly the same way. All I can say really is: thank goodness for multi-tasking. And make-up.
Jaide, Mrs.Long, Mummy, Mummum, Hermione, ‘Companion’, Dorothy, Jaidos and Me. x