May 19

I think one of the things I find so difficult about this is that I feel that, once more and forcefully, I am being told what it means to be a"good mother."  A good mother stays home.  A good mother sacrifices her professional life to mitigate risk.  A good mother does not mourn her work life or her personal time.  A good mother does not prioritize her vocation.

I resent this mightily.  I do not want to stay home with my children.  I never have.  I value my work immensely and I resent being told to give it up, or at least give up doing it well, for "what really matters." Yes, children really matter.  But my work also matters.  My inner life also matters. And I don't see anyone going around shaming men into giving up their jobs to marginally mitigate risk.

It reminds me of the immense societal pressure to breastfeed, and how damaging I found the imperative to sacrifice my time, effort, and sanity on the altar of "good motherhood."  There is a strong vein of sexism in the liberal, upper-SES parenting world and I'm tired of pretending it doesn't exist.

 

May 10

I should stop reading the news, but I can't.  I should stop and eating carbs and junk, but I can't.  I am worn down and sad.

Nevertheless, it has been a good enough Mother's Day so far.  I have never had a "real" Mother's Day, in the sense of a day of ease, breakfast in bed, a special fuss.  David has worked every single Mother's Day I have been a mother, and I have frequently been out of town as well.

So this morning he made sourdough pancakes, eggs, bacon, strawberries, coffee, and then cleaned most of it up again, and that was nice.

William wished me a Happy Mother's Day and has been as decent as he can be right now- nice between bouts of halfhearted hitting and kicking.  He read Margaret a book she wanted to have read to her and played trains with her on the carpet; he is sweet underneath all the drama and anxiety.

I only worked a little bit today, and I may not practice.

Margaret spends her naptime yelping and singing to herself in her crib.  She is irrepressible, and one of the only joys of this long period of pain has been getting to know her better.

May 9

We bought this house because there are two window-box rooms on the back side of the house, glass on three sides, angling out toward a wall trees.  They used to be porches, but we've gussied them up, slapping on heating and cooling and double paned windows, so now the downstairs room is my office, alternately chilly and too warm. And the upstairs room is a sleeping porch that opens off the master bedroom.  It's almost empty- one chair, one daybed, one bookshelf.  But you can lie flat on the narrow mattress and stare out at green and the sky.

It's fine.

May 8

I just want something to change.

May 7

Each day blurs into the next.  I live for the brief moments I have away from my children, in which no one is demanding anything of me and I am alone.

At the same time, I am so much enjoying Margaret.  I have been delighted by both of my children at one.  One-year-olds are congenitally charming, and they adore you, and it is fun to watch them learn to express their small, concrete thoughts.

William, on the other hand, is a chore.  He holds all of us hostage with his moods and endless demands.  I hate the voice he uses -stretched thin, panicked- when, say, we are late bringing his water cup to the table.  I hate being screamed at and hit, even if the hitting is not in earnest.  I hate that I don't trust him with Margaret.  I hate that it is a struggle simply to put on clothes or shoes, and that we can't walk down a sidewalk without screaming because one of us gets ahead of him slightly, or behind him, or, or, or..... I feel abused and furious.

This has built slowly.  I used to be able to meet him with compassion and quality parenting. But lately I am just done.  I am sick of having to tiptoe around him.  Nothing works.  I am coming to where I dislike my own child, and that is sad.  I adored him for those four easy years we had, but since then he has been much tougher, and I think now it is just too much for me day in day out with no break, ever.

If camp starts up in summer I will probably send him, even though I will be anxious/ guilty about it, simply for my sanity.

April 18

A couple of notes:

The next wave of economic destruction is heaving into view.  Artists, freelancers, and low-wage workers were first, but now some of my friends and students are starting to be furloughed or fired..librarians, IT workers, researchers, faculty members.  It makes me sad, and low-grade nervous for my husband's job.  My online teaching at this point I think will survive, even if some students fall away...but that could be overly optimistic.  This pandemic has been worse than my expectations at almost every turn- and I am a pessimist by nature.

My mother snapped a picture of where my father's memorial oak tree will be planted in Bryan Park.  It is a lovely spot, next to a bench and a small creek; he would have approved.  I hope that someday I get to visit it.

I continue to be profoundly thankful that he is already gone.

I did have a couple of nice moments in lessons this week.  I watched a 96-year old new student pour his heart into Bach's Air on a G String, and I talked with a longtime student about the eternity inherent in chaconnes-their harmonies were repeating before you were born; they are repeating now; they will be repeating after you die.  I think she found solace in that, as do I.

April 17

I have basically lost all hope for the future. This crappy existence will be all we have (until my husband loses his job, in which case we will also have terror.)

I have pinpointed that a lot of my misery comes from sensory overload, which is impossible to remediate in a home with two small children and a husband who insists on turning on all the lights and music all the time.