On Letting the Dishes Wait

Where do we go when we become mothers? 

I am a mom of two, but where am I? Where is the Kelly that wore all of those clothes, that read all of those books, that wrote all of those words? Where is the girl who grabbed dinner with her friends, who slept in on weekends, who wandered around New York City with no place to be?

With my dream of motherhood coming true, I now have to navigate the clashing desires of two different versions of me. I want to wear the jeans that won’t button. I want to stop by a bookstore on a whim without thinking about the time. I want to listen to my almost three-year-old talk all day. I want to be able to write without being interrupted to breastfeed. I want to smell my newborn’s head forever. I want to spend my mornings lingering in bed with my daughters and husband. I want to get my nails done. I want to finish a book. I want to be without my kids without having to miss them.

And everything I’ve just listed are the wants, but what about the needs? 

The dishes, the cleaning, the laundry, the cooking… Where does the old me exist? Is she between the emptying of the dishwasher and the naptime routine? Is she the girl who asks her husband, “Is it okay if I shower real quick?” Is she the voice in my head every morning that says, today will be the day I get to do that thing I really want to do? 

Does she even exist anymore? 

I’ve been struggling. Every day feels like a fight between getting all of the “needs” done and “enjoying every moment” and finding myself again. I have never been able to do it all in one day. 

Some days, the house is a mess but we made muffins together and painted with watercolors. Some days, the house is spotless but the toddler had a tantrum after watching a bit too much Little Bear. Some days, I pump six ounces of milk for the freezer. Some days, I completely forget to pump at all. Some days, I’m reading the longer books at bedtime. Some days, I’m skipping pages.  Most days, I do not get to do that thing I really want to do. 

The metamorphosis into motherhood has been profound. I would choose it in every lifetime. It’s also so, so hard. 

I read somewhere that your babies’ DNA can live in your body for decades after pregnancy. Is this why I am not myself? While I was growing their bodies, were they forever changing mine? Instead of fighting to be the girl I was before them, maybe I need to step into the woman they have made me, because there is no version of me who is not a mother. The problem is that I’ve been trying to separate myself into “mother” and “me,” and then being pretty harsh on both of them for what they can’t get done.  But, maybe the solution lies in accepting that there are not two versions of me, but a new version of me, and then forgiving that new version for not doing it all. 

Maybe- it’s letting the dishes pile up so I can write all of this down.