Alice is my priority, more important than any other priority I’ve ever had. I have dedicated months to Alice, allowing my life to be defined by her. She has dictated every aspect of my day in one way or another. I don’t think there is anything wrong with investing all I have in to giving her the best start to what I’m sure will be an amazing life.
I am more than happy for her to take over and I will devote whatever is needed to her, so long as I keep reminding myself that she doesn’t define me as a person. I have found that re-engaging with a few things that I enjoy - getting back to the gym and writing, mainly – has been a great way for me to remember that, after Alice, there’s other stuff that brings me joy, too.
In all honesty, the only reason I am able to indulge myself with trips to the gym and time to write is because my circumstance allows it. I am blessed with amazing, reliable, constant support; this is a luxury not every mother has and I am deeply grateful for my personal circumstance. There is no way I would be able to go to the gym without the help of Alice’s grandparents, a few great friends and a wonderful partner at home every night. Like I said, I am deeply grateful.
If things were different – if I was doing this on my own or lived far away from family - Alice would still be dictating the events in my life 100% (instead of me stealing away 2% for myself). It might drive me nuts, I might lose myself in the process, but that’s how it would be and I wouldn’t wish it any other way.
There is only one thing I feel like I sacrificed for Alice’s sake, and that is going to the gym six times a week. Since Alice was born I have had a mild, nagging ache to get to get back to the gym, but it has grown to what I can only describe as a longing because it meant so much more to me that just a workout. For one, it’s an injection of endorphins; feel good and fancy free. It is social – a women’s gym focused on celebrating success is a great way to meet other women in a positive, judgement-free zone. And it is something just for me, something to make me feel like a normal person again, a woman again, strong and healthy and a little more confident about how I look. I’ve been back for a month, and it’s incredible.
Don’t get me wrong, I feel guilty every time I walk out the door to the gym. Having an hour to do something that benefits me only is almost a foreign concept now, something I still ask permission for (and have never been denied). My partner, after a long day at work, barely gets through the door before I’m rushing out of it so I can get home for the bedtime routine. I feel bad that he spends his day working to support us only to come home and work some more. To make myself feel better and ease the guilt I remind myself that he gets to pee his own, I don’t. This is my justification.
Something I’ve not had to sacrifice so much is writing. I’ve noticed that days are much brighter when I find time to write. Writing has always been cathartic for me. Like any creative outlet - painting or dancing or bonsai design - it can be a small piece of your day spent creating something pretty, pointless for all intents and purposes with the exception of adding texture and beauty and thought to the universe.
Writing makes me use my brain in a different way. It makes me think about audience and content and basic English (usually). I get to play with words, explore my own theories, and reflect. I blog, I continue to keep a teaching portfolio, I write long and whimsical love letters to Alice for when she’s older. I love the way writing makes me feel, especially now that so much of my time is dedicated to the fundamental care of another.
Oh, I’ve also managed to re-read a few of my favourite books. Being transported to another time and place was so glorious it made me giddy.
I have spoken to some really switched on, mindful mothers who are worried they are becoming something they swore never to be; a woman who’s life is defined by their children. I understand that this can be a scary thing, having the essence of yourself being defined by another. But I also think it’s easy to forget that devoting huge chunks of your life to your child is very different to being defined by them. Devotion is not definition, devotion is love and care mixed in the big pot of prioritising and seasoned with generations of mother’s instinct. A mother’s devotion lasts a lifetime, surely, but how we define ourselves changes with each phase of life. Hobbies and pastimes and passions – writing and the gym in my case – reminds me that I have other titles, other "hats”, other ways of defining who I am after I introduce myself as “Alice’s Mother”, my most important title yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment