July 12, 2014

The moment my first son was born, I remember the world I knew rushing out, rather like the  one one trillionth of a second after the Big Bang in which the universe began to grow outward in all directions and went from nothing to infinite. The life I knew had gone forever and a new life came at the same moment in its place. With a bright red scrotum.

There was the pregnancy, there was birth, and then there was that bit that they don’t talk about in the birthing classes and the pregnancy books: mothering. It sometimes seems a little bit
like an inconvenience to have to deal with that, especially if you’re inclined to like to dwell on the pregnancy and birth part — so womanly! So MAGICAL! But the thing is, those parts END,
and the mothering (if you’re lucky) does NOT. No book will tell you what to do when your younger son wants to play with your older son’s penis in the bath. Or how to patiently explain to
your three year-old why he may not smother his brother with a pillow. I felt kind of thrust out of the warm, nurturing woman tent at those points. Every parent has to figure it out his or her own way.

There is this, that you know, if you are a mother. You are a
member of a club—yay! A club they can never kick you out of.

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