Cliches of motherhood

Who are we, in the face of an experience so profound and ordinary, to think we can say it better?

I write this newsletter while Aya is in daycare, where she goes two days per week, six hours at a time. A friend with an older kid warned me that the hours would go quickly and, of course, she was right. In these two days per week I try to fit household tasks that are easier when Aya isn’t around, as well as seeing friends, writing, reading, doing yoga in-person, and generally hanging out in silence, giving my thoughts the chance to develop. Right now, I have a load of laundry in the dryer and one hour before I have to go pick up Aya.

Another friend asked me recently if my life is harder now that I have a kid. I had to laugh because the answer is yes! And at the same time, strangely the opposite. And isn’t that whole answer a cliche? I used to fear the cliches of motherhood, especially while I was pregnant. People tossed them at me all the time in person and in books and articles about pregnancy and motherhood. It goes by so fast! You’ll never go to the bathroom alone again! Your heart will be walking around outside your body!

Since having Aya, I’ve become humbled to cliche. I trade them with strangers at the playground as a form of neighborly goodwill without minding at all — because it does go by so fast, and early childhood is amazing, no matter that it’s a basic part of life. Who are we, in the face of something so profound and ordinary, to think we can say it better? Still, that is my work and my aspiration, to arrange words in a way that breaks through the expected enough to touch someone else’s heart.

I think what I feared about the cliches of motherhood was that they would transform me into someone I didn’t recognize because they left no room for individuality for either myself or my child. We would become archetype and in the process be erased. It’s been a relief and delight to find that my relationship with Aya, even when she was moments old, is as singular and ordinary as any other relationship between two people. If we are erased by the way society talks about motherhood, we’re fully rendered together.

The other night, I took Aya running for the first time. Though she has been more resistant to strollers lately, she wanted to climb into the big, reclined jogging stroller right away. We took off in the dusk light, the moon visible between the tall trees planted along our building’s driveway. “Come back, moon,” Aya said, which I think, based on the way she also says, “Come back, Mama” means, “You’re back, moon.” As we ran, the sky darkened and the smell of jasmine filled the air. “Let’s go!” Aya said each time we stopped at a stop light. Succulent flowers stretched outward on their stalks, making silhouettes against the deep blue night. We took it all in together, me looking down at Aya as she looked up at the sky.

Journaling prompt:

Is there a cliche that has stuck with you, whether for its incompleteness or its truth? What does it capture about your experience and what does it leave out?