The Book of Ruth Chapter 18: Parenting at the end of the world

I feel so far away from my creativity these days. It used to scare me. Keep me up at night. What am I if not making, tinkering, producing?

During this season of life, that creativity is less of a spark and more of a subconsicous drone in the background of my mind, always there. Lying in wait.

My focus is elsewhere.

I'm busy. I'm working. I'm sleeping when I can. The world feels...scarrier. A bit less full of possibility. Less full of meaningful opportunities to grab onto.

I question my futility. Is it apathy? Laziness? Idleness? Exhaustion? All of the above?

I haven't worked out in months. I'm wearing my pjs while insisting my child wears clothes. She notices the hypocricy. I feel we often expect more of her than we do from ourselves. She's 3.5 years old.

I worry. So much. About my mothering. The job I'm doing. The neuroses I'm implanting. The fear I'm infusing into her little body. How I never feel settled. I watch other mothers with their children. Their ease. I don't feel ease. Ever. How will she if it's not modeled to her?

She runs hot. When I pick her up from pre-school it's often a struggle, she stiffens every muscle in her body and screams to get away. She runs and fights. I try every parenting hack on the internet. I guess I didn't say it with the right tone, or I'm a monster. I get her outdoor clothes on against her wishes. It always feels bad.

I see other parents calmly getting their children into their outdoor gear. I flood with envy. I look at her face and don't wish her to be anything other than who and what she is. But a little ease would be nice.

One morning as we're cuddling in bed, she asks me why there's black stuff under my eyes. I tell her it's from yesterday's make up. She asks why she doesn't wear make up? I tell her it's becuase she's already so beautiful. She asks why I'm not that beautiful. I say....I am...in my own way. She wipes it away. Then picks at the flecks.

Friends announce they're expecting. Another friend tells me she feels back to herself now that her baby is 11 months old. Everyone gets their kids to daycare at 8:30am. We waddle in at 9:20am most days after threats to cut the walk and just drive if she doens't get her snowpants on NOW. Another friend takes her new baby out for an activity every single day. She's busier than ever and fitting it all in.

I wonder if I'll ever feel like myself again. How well did I even know myself before we had her? Life before her hardly seems like my life at all.

I grab a snack for pick up.

A friend tells me everyone is floundering in their own way. Which is true but I know deep down it's a spectrum. I feel people's calm and I look at them in amazment. They laugh, and go on vacation, and write books, and get promotions. They do not doomscroll their day away wondering what the fuck is going on with this rock hurtling through space. Most days I don't, but the algorithm is strong.

I get dinner on the table. I brush hair and teeth and read stories. I sit beside her trying not to be annoyed as the clock strikes 9 and she is still awake. It's my favourite and most dreaded activity: bedtime. As she drifts off her breaths become longer and she snores her little Ruth snore. She cuddles Elsa and Puppy. And I hope she has lo-fi dreams. I know I will miss these days so profoundly someday. I also want her to grow up so we can be adults together while also mourning every passing stage.

I often feel I'm in two places and nowhere all at once.

When she was a baby and people asked how she was, I'd have a whole monologue about the milestones she's passed and every new little look or behviour. Now I just say....I don't know...she's so herself. She's so beautiful. She talks so much.

I've never wanted to know someone's inner world more. It gnaws at me. I remind myself to play it cool. No one loves that intensity.

She asks me to step outside the bathroom one night during bathtime. She wants to belt out Disney songs but she doesn't want me there. I stand outside the door. Her voice is strong and fun. She tries to hit the notes but she doesn't know or care if she's getting it right. A freedom I've long forgotten.

I ask her what kind of monster she would like me to be while I brush her teeth. I cross my fingers and hope she takes me up on the offer instead of engaging in yet another power struggle. She chooses a monster who can't stay awake. She even lets me floss for the first time ever. That's usually a daddy job.

She snuggles in for books and bedtime and let's me nuzzle into her, but not too tight. My lips rest against her forehead as she falls asleep. I feel guilty about the relief I'll feel in knowing my work for the day is done. I'm free and yet I don't know what to do with myself. What a weird tug o war. I go to bed and tell myself not to scroll. I scroll. Then I read a little. And drift off to sleep, myself.

She wakes up calling for me at 2am. I go in, give her a hug and a kiss, and tell her I'll come back to check on her every five minutes until she's back asleep. But the power goes off and she screams. She cuddles into our bed and I'm relieved to have her beside me all night. A rare treat.

In the morning, she pushes hair away from my forehead and tells me she likes me soooo much. She grabs me in her vice grip hug and rubs her cheek into my face like she's trying to get inside my jaw.

Being a mom makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle. While I live the dream of taking care of her; time stops. Whenever I wake up and look around; months have passed. Friends haven't been checked in with. Hair hasn't been cut. The house piles up with stuff. I'm going to blink and be 40. I'll be none the wiser, not more together or clear about anything.

Motherhood is all-consuming. At least it is for me. It is spellbinding and confusing. Scary and life-affirming. They say not to lose yourself. I try, but I think I've always been a bit lost so this is par for the course. The further I go down the rabbit hole the less I know which way is up.

Caring for someone, being their person, meeting their needs, wants, and desires is so delicate. It is an honour and a terrifying proposition for a perfectionist. Becuase when it comes to humans our bonds are imperfect by design. Becuase we are imperfect by design.

I only have one child. I don't know how people have more. I tip my hat to them. I look on in awe and admiration. And a little bit of jealousy that they can hold so much tenderness at the same time without breaking. It is brave. Confident.

I'll sit here. In my uncertain, neurotic little corner. Knowing what I can handle and simultaneously wishing it were different. Knowing myself well enough to know my capacity. And being impressed and grateful for everyone who guides little hands and holds them in the best ways they know how.