My phone buzzes with a message from my mom—she’s sending me an article by Leandra Cohen in her Substack newsletter. It was sent to her by a friend (hi Zoe!), who is the sort of person whom you’d want on a hiking trip with you for hours of conversation: funny and thoughtful and curious about everything. Leandra’s piece is written as a letter to her daughters. In it she writes: “I had been thinking that here, on the occasion of your first birthday, I had this chance to sensationalize how profound and electrifying and intense it had been to be your mom. And it was all those things! It is. But it has also been remarkably tedious and frustrating and boring and at times, even soul-crushing. This has shown me something significant.”
(Okay, so she goes on to write some truly beautiful thoughts about those significant discoveries, and the piece is well worth reading, whether you’re a mother or not.)
In the past year since I myself have become a mother, I’ve come across some exceptional prose written by women who can articulate the experience of parenthood with such fluidity and piercing honesty and grace.
The writing I gravitate towards all strikes at the heart of the same message: The transition into motherhood is at once both an exquisite and deeply moving miracle (one you can’t entirely believe you’re witnessing, one you have to remind yourself of at least three times a week by poking your head around the bathroom door with your soaking wet baby—fresh from the tub and squealing delightedly—to call to your husband, “can you believe he is ours?” or “we made a baby!”) AND a tediously routine and tear-inducing learning curve steeped with the frustrating head-trip of finding yourself, a capable and smart adult, suddenly and deeply inept and at a loss.
And I agree that yes, yes it is both of those things all at once. I have wept in the pitch-dark of the wee hours of the morning, pajamas half-unbuttoned, a sheen of sweat on my cheeks, trying to coax a tiny being back to sleep as he stares up at me, bewildered at the tornado of emotion above him, his wide-open eyes glistening in the moonlight.
I have wept on a bike ride on a perfectly sunny day, afraid of and unable to see a way out of the wave of exhaustion that threatens to pull me under, so unrelenting that it does feel indeed like drowning.
And the triumphs! And all the in-between! I feel more in-the-right-place than I have in many years, perhaps ever. My days have a rhythm—they follow the natural cadence of a small body pulsing with life and energy. My mind whirls, and his ticks to a beat far more physical and elemental. I am suffused with love, and even more, I am a duo now. His small self alongside mine.
But here’s what I’m getting at—yes, that dichotomy of dullness and celebration, of which Cohen and so many others speak, is true about early motherhood, but it isn’t just true of parenting. It’s life.
Some days (dear late 2020, I’m not not talking about you) feel deeply boring. You can be trapped in your own head, victim of your own thoughts.
And yet—it’s never just that. You are protagonist and supporting actress and bit part in your own story.
In the same week, or even the same day, you can also be genuinely so wildly thrilled to be alive that you can barely bear the exquisite beauty of it all, sometimes even simply by walking outside at night to see the full moon making the surface of the bay look like inky wet paint doused in glitter.
But a lot of the time you’re just…going along. One foot in front of the other. Breathing, having moments of ooh yeah this is nice (warm pasta carbonara for dinner, an episode of a good show in comfy pajamas, the first sip of a cup of coffee in the morning, your sister making you laugh) interspersed with ordinary, neither-thrilling-nor-unthrilling moments (work meetings, a run, making the bed, ordering laundry detergent, waving to your neighbors, reading a magazine).
Not naming any names here, just speaking in completely vague hypotheticals, but something might happen on Friday that forms a lump in your throat so palpable you finally realize why that phrase exists, as it feels like you’re swallowing down a physical sob every five minutes. You might have to splash cold water on your face before all three of your Zoom meetings, plastering on a cheerful smile and hoping no one notices your red-rimmed eyes and the firm set of your jaw and how little you care right now about engagement metrics or bagel-boiling techniques.
And then on Saturday, you might wake up with the feeling gone, as if someone tip-toed into your bedroom at night and gently tugged off the sinking sensation of disappointment that you’d been wearing all day like a cloak.
You might take a beautiful 5-mile run over to the tiny fire station in East Marion, the air cold and crisp but the sky a bright, cloudless blue. You might feel so good running, thanks to your extremely fierce Peloton treadmill workout the day before (culminating in a 10-minute series of 30 second sprints at a 10% incline, HELLO LEGS), that it’s effortless. Like you’re strong and young and lightly tanned and breathing easily and very, very present in the moment.
Anyway again, I’m just saying—this is all just a “what if”. Total conjecture. You understand of course.
What I would recommend is giving into the swing of it all. (Oh wow, “getting into the swing of things” suddenly takes on new meaning.)
Just be where you are. Earlier this year, I was home on the farm for a visit and was talking seriously to my dad about something that seemed urgently difficult at the time (of course I can’t even remember what it was now—LIFE, ha). He turned to me and very calmly said, “Po, everything is a moment in time.”
Mic drop, dad. Thank you. I carry this sentence with me all the time now, like a little golden coin in my pocket, reaching down to touch it and rub its comfortingly firm ridged rim, feeling its worn weight in my hand—so to speak—as a gentle reminder to not overthink but to just be.
[Editor’s note: Right, in case I’ve lost you there, and you’re like this girl is nuts, she just told me she was weeping into her bike handlebars at random, clearly she is not a Zen master—well, I’m not. The point isn’t that you should not allow yourself to be overcome, but just to remember that things continually shift from dull to extraordinary, sad to brilliantly happy, normal to normal—so, just show up and see what the day serves you.]
Oh, and it doesn’t hurt to judiciously season your day with good food and sleep and any other input that primes you to be able to be present. I recommend focusing on lunches: good ones. Don’t just fling yourself over this part of the day with an uninspired sandwich or a handful of crackers eaten at the kitchen counter.
If you need a place to start: salads. Make them better. The secret, I believe, lies in the crunch. Instead of croutons, I’ve been liberally topping any and all foods lately with this topping: a mixture of seeds [flax, poppy, sesame, sunflower, caraway, anise] that’s intended for bread recipes but you know, live dangerously and all that. Skirt the rules.
You could probably substitute everything bagel topping, or just a blend of your own seeds, but something about this particular mixture really nails it every time. If you use everything bagel topping, know that it usually has salt added so don’t add any extra.
Crunchy Seed-Topped Prosciutto Salad
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 egg yolk, at room temperature*
1 clove garlic, minced finely
1/2 cup olive oil
pinch of flaky sea salt
4 cups arugula
1/2 cup fresh parsley, chopped roughly
1/4 pound thinly sliced prosciutto
1/2 cup seed blend [I use this one]
*If you’re not okay with raw egg, leave this baby out!
In a large measuring cup or food processor, whisk together (or blend) the vinegar, mustard, egg yolk (if using), garlic, and sea salt. Slowly stream in the olive oil until smooth and emulsified.
In a very large bowl (helps to distribute the dressing better), toss the arugula with the parsley and the flaky sea salt. Drizzle the dressing over the greens, and toss again lightly.
Divide the greens between shallow bowls and top with slices of prosciutto and a very generous sprinkle of the seed blend.