Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
We came in hot to the mother-son dinner at school, him yanking on the sleeves of the sport coat he had quickly outgrown, and me suffering from impostor syndrome in boots and a sleeveless midi dress — my typical wardrobe can best be described as pajama-influenced athleisure.
Though the buffet line offered real food, my son loaded up his plate with rolls and cookies and bypassed the napkins — why bother when you can just wipe your hands on your pants? A friend at our table asked if he eats vegetables at home. Yes, he does. He also knows not to tip his chair back and chew on the plastic water bottle top like it’s an oversized Chiclet, but he’s 13 and I’m taking a short break from constantly correcting him while I try to enjoy this simultaneously lovely and awkward mass event.
In addition to the band and the guest speaker, selected seniors gave speeches about their moms. They were funny and heartfelt, and I was struck by how detailed they were — how acutely aware these boys were of the ways their mothers care for them. It felt like the Oscars of motherhood. And it made me wonder: If my roll-eating, crumb-spewing seventh-grader were to stand behind a podium in a few years and describe why I’m his Best Woman in a Supporting Role, what would I want him to say?
No platitudes, please.
I’m not a living Hallmark card, all flowery and scripted and full of empty generalities. I don’t light up a room when I walk in. I will not give you the shirt off my back. I am equally thoughtful and unkind. I’m not perfect, selfless or tireless — in fact the three words I say most often are “I’m so tired.” As a recovering perfectionist, I make many mistakes, but my Achilles’ heel is that I’ll admit to and apologize for none of them.
Motherhood didn’t come easily.
I wasn’t the kind of girl who loved to play house or babysit, and for years I said I didn’t want to have kids. That changed after I got married. I waited a few years until I felt 100 percent ready, then lost my first son at 5-and-a-half months pregnant. I needed time to grieve and heal, but I was in my late 30s and worried my window of opportunity was closing. I got pregnant again quickly. I spent every moment of that second pregnancy so completely undone with the fear of losing another child that I didn’t let myself think past his first breath. While I do not delight in him every second of every day as I once thought I would, there are some mornings — when his alarm has been blaring for 10 minutes and he hasn’t moved — that I look at my sleeping child and am flooded with the same intense gratitude I felt the moment my husband put him in my arms.
We’re both growing.
It’s taken me a long time to understand that the real work of motherhood is healing the child inside you while raising the one you created. I see the worst of me in him: his refusal to budge, cutting remarks and need to blame. I act this way by reflex, and don’t like how it looks and feels coming from him. I also see the best of me in him: his tender heart, love of words and the way his voice shakes when he speaks up for himself. We’re both terrible at time management, feel deeply and have the same style of arguing, which makes for some pretty nasty fights that leave me shaken for hours afterward while he quickly shakes them off and moves on.
Self-care saves lives.
I’ve never been great at self-care. Even in my 20s, when I had all the time in the world, I struggled to prioritize my mental and physical health until something was on fire. I’m pretty good at taking care of him; I’m trying to be better at taking care of myself while taking care of him. Sometimes I full-on forget I have needs. I’ve even forgotten what I like to do. On the rare occasions I’m home alone and not working, I’m paralyzed by all the options — Should I start a project? Sit and stare at the wall? — and usually wind up eating salty snacks on the couch while watching The Wire for the 100th time. Since no one is coming to take care of me, I’ve started to do it myself: a dance class here, a massage there and a lot more walking. While it feels odd to put myself first, I can feel it working, and am ever-so-slightly less inclined to fantasize about running away/living alone/silent retreats.
Keep showing up.
One of the big lies of motherhood — and there are many — is that women automatically know what to do when they have a child. I remember wishing there was a manual for raising kids, preferably bullet-pointed by age. After a few years of looking for The Answer and realizing there isn’t one, I settled on a very simple strategy: Keep showing up. You’re into baseball? I’m in the stands. Sad because your teacher asked if anyone doubts that God exists, and you were the only third-grader who raised your hand? I will validate the shit out of that. Every pickup and drop-off. Every illogical, hormonal rant. Every post-bedtime snack request. Not always happily, kindly or with clean clothes on, but I show up. As a longtime writer for health care outlets, I’ve interviewed too many women for too many articles about fatal diseases, and cried along with them while they describe the pain of knowing they’ll say goodbye to their children before they’re ready. As exhausting as it is to show up for this life I’ve created, held together with Popsicle sticks and glue day after day, it’s harder to imagine never being able to show up again.
