26 Dec 2017

It’s not bad being home. Mama and papa and Sofia in one place, me in another – not bad at all. As I’m typing this, it’s starting to snow, proper big-ass snowflakes, and suddenly I’ve stopped pretending like winters are the worst. As Sofia is conveniently placed at my parents’, which is across the road from mine, I have all this time to be by myself and stare out the window whilst not having to apply physical care to anyone but me. While the snowflakes roll out. Happy holidays indeed.

I will have more festivities-related thoughts next week, a few days before THE BIG ONE – the New Year’s Eve – to reflect upon, because we’re still two weeks away and the closer we get to the 12-beat countdown the more I’ll have got to observe, and love, in Baby’s excitement, to charge from it, and write about it. These past few days I am all about self-involvement though, and how peaceful it feels to have your baby taken care of by your parents. I see her every day but I also don’t SEE her? It’s amazing, this loneliness, you know? I think what I’m trying to unsuccessfully articulate, is that I’m yet to grasp why children are automatically seen as the undeniable, if not only, source of happiness.

I am lucky to be living at a time when both women and men are freer in their decisions to not have children. I f-cking love those people, going against what they had probably been taught and groomed for since they themselves were born. They’re like “hell no, f-ck children, I would rather do literally anything else with my life”. And I am not saying I had my child because I couldn’t fight the outside pressure (there sure was pressure but it didn’t make the cut in the decision) – I want to make this very clear that I had a child because I wanted to raise a human being – but it would be dishonest to pretend that I don’t see how I would be happy had I not chosen to have her. Life is obese. It is fat with sh-t to do, places to see, books to read, stories to write, money to earn, music sheets to memorise and people to meet (a bit too far on that last one, I hardly leave my home let alone spark up conversations). Now that I am sharing mine with a human who not only has her own commitments (school, weekends at father’s, etc.) but requires the big M-MONEY, most of the beautiful things I could have done, I won’t get to do. Not a problem, I knew what I was getting myself into (sorta?). But if I did get to explore life in those ways, it wouldn’t be a problem either, eh. Fulfilment is vast on resources.

Is that why I don’t see motherhood as the epitome of a woman’s “path”? Like, until you’ve had a child you can’t be considered a REAL woman? That is a load of sh-t. I refuse to accept this, like childless women are somehow damaged, f-ck you. Women with five children and women with zero children deserve equal admiration. I see being a parent as not a way to define womanhood, I see it as a choice to lead a different life to the one you’d lead before. A different life, not a better life. So no, I don’t ponder if the “real me is still in there”, behind the snot and the sh-t and the tantrums. Of course, she’s in there, where would she have gone? You don’t need an entire personality change to go get the diapers. I would appreciate it if everyone calmed their tits on the omg-I’m-covered-in-baby-wipes-while-lactating-but-haha-I’m-truly-a-mother-now ridiculousness. It’s not cute.

A lot of people credit their children with making them better people and I believe them, I do. I believe them as much as I believe myself that I have made myself a better person when I stopped getting drunk every weekend and became kinder to my parents as a result. It had nothing to do with a child transforming me, it had everything to do with the extend of my grossness, like there was no way but up for me from there. Where Sofia comes in, is in that she remained by my side as I started getting my sh-t together, she doesn’t know it, but she did. THAT I think is whatever is the superlative of “priceless”. I will always love being her parent for that.