Something has been bothering me lately.
Something that I don't think most people ever think about when they ask me how my day was or what's going on in my life. I think they are distracted by the fact that I have an adorable one-year-old on my hip and a gigantic baby bump inside my belly. This is understandable to me. I also find that for some reason everyone things I'm the kind of person who never wanted anything more than to grow up and be a wife and mother. I don't take offense at this assumption (which has been verbally expressed to me a number of times recently) because I think it's a compliment in a way and I kind of do wish it was true... but it's SO not.
Most of my life all I've ever wanted to do was write stories. When I first married my husband, we talked a lot about it because it was concerning to him how disinterested I was in the prospect of having children. And to take this confession further: I really don't like kids that much. I love my baby, because I can't help it... but it's not like I'm this sweet motherly person who's always looking for opportunities to nurture someone. On principle I want a big family, but in practice it terrifies me to think of having a house full of loud, attention-needing, dirty little kids. They are cute, but they take up a lot of space and time and money. Especially time.
So now you see the selfishness that dwells deep down inside me. But aside from the prospect of being worn out all the time, I don't think these things would bother me so much if it weren't for my ambitions, which are becoming nothing more than a thorn in my flesh these days. I don't think it really matters much what those ambitions are, but having some sort of ambition is very, very important to me. Writing has always been something I could do, so I made it my ambition to become an author before I died, even if it was just a one-time deal. I've clung to that and worked towards that since I was a child. Having an ambition makes me feel like I'm a person unto myself, without needing to be defined by those around me. Perhaps this is also selfishness... perhaps it's worldliness. Perhaps it's just necessary.
I always told myself I wouldn't let go of my writing, even after I got married and had children. I was absolutely sure if it... I'd seen other mothers give up on their "dreams" and succumb to the (I thought) soul-sucking reality of children-raising until it took over their lives completely. I would have none of it!
Well, I didn't know a thing when I thought those prideful thoughts. Ever since Katara was born, I have spent hours every month sitting in front of a blank computer screen trying to force words onto a page, trying to craft a story which I care nothing about. I guess it didn't happen overnight, but every day I care a little less, until now, it's like I can hardly even force myself to read novels because I can only think about the pointlessness of the story. It's not real, it never was real... it can only have a minimal effect on anyone's life at best, and at worst will only serve to entertain and distract busy housewives like me.
This is SO depressing to me. I know I'm missing passion. Writing and reading used to be a wonderful escape for me because I was a wild young thing full of emotions and I could be swept away in a moment by a beautifully written scene on a page. And now I'm just sort of tired all the time, and my mind NEVER stops thinking about stupid little details- like how many ounces of formula Katara should be drinking at this age and how often the dog needs to be bathed. It's the curse of motherhood, I'm convinced- the inability to stop thinking. I even find myself getting caught up in the petty problems of others, trying to churn out solutions to transportation issues and food preparations that aren't even my responsibility to worry about. These things really don't matter at all in the end of the day. None of this does, except for pouring all the love and care I can into my children so that they will thrive in the world someday... and God knows I spend far too little time thinking about that.
I think if I never wrote again, I could be perfectly fine with that. It would be a relief, even, to release myself from that ambition. But then I wouldn't be anybody at all, except for Katara's mom and Danny's wife. This would drive me crazy, and not just because I want people to think I'm something special. I know I NEED something all my own to contribute to this world, even if it is stupid and petty compared to the high calling of motherhood. I long to be caught up in excitement for a project again, and to feel a sense of pride in the work I'm doing.
What am I supposed to do here? Should I just drop my ambitions, and try to be content with the definite calling God has given me for right now? Should I keep pushing myself to write, even when it feels like trying to breathe life into a skeleton? Or should I try to find a new passion to keep me going when the days of diaper changes and meal plans get too long?
One thing I do know: there is no such thing as "just" a mom. I think it would be nice if the world at large learned to ask stay-at-home moms about their ambitions, because I'm pretty sure we all have them, even if they are so buried under our responsibilities they haven't seen the light of day in years. People don't exist just to keep the world running... we all like to make it a little more interesting along the way too. It is this which keeps us human. And we moms are human too, despite what our children (and culture) may sometimes think of us!
