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WARNING: ANGST AND BUMMER VIBES ONLY
I really had a vision for the type of parent I'd be. Instruments and art supplies everywhere. Giving the kids lessons. I wanted to make their childhoods "magical". I'm sad to say that I have utterly failed in this area.
I remember reading some article that quoted Patti Scialfa-wait, first of all, do you know who she is? I sure didn't. We all know her husband Bruce Springsteen though.-saying that it was incredibly hard for her, a rock n roll hall of fame inductee, to find time to write music because her husband was always at the studio and she was taking care of the kids. She woke up at 4 am to write while everyone else was asleep. She sacrificed recording her solo record to sing backups for her husband's tour. How many women, especially ones married to successful or famous men, have been shuffled into obscurity because they are the primary caregivers in the household?
I didn't count on my first kid being very sensitive to sounds and throw screaming tantrums every time I try to sing or play music. I didn't count on my second kid being dangerously capable of hurting himself, more than any child I've ever known, and needing an exhausting amount of supervision to avoid a visit to the emergency room.
I knew parenting would be difficult. I knew it would be isolating and that my life would drastically change. I just didn't predict the extent to which the core of how I express my identity would fall apart. (Throw in leaving a cult and a narcissistic abuser as a - at the time - young single mother in the same year, and jesus fucking christ no wonder I am a shell of a person now.) The world pays lip service to caregivers of children, especially mothers, but doesn't actually value or honor that work or allow them to have lives outside of that role.
My kids deserve a lot better. Fuck, I deserve better. (Right? I think? That's something I'm supposed to say, but it feels weird and wrong to say I deserve things.) I wanted to foster creativity in them but lost the ability to do it for myself. Most days feel like I've been dropped in the middle of the ocean at night.
My kids deserve a lot better. Fuck, I deserve better. (Right? I think? That's something I'm supposed to say, but it feels weird and wrong to say I deserve things.) I wanted to foster creativity in them but lost the ability to do it for myself. Most days feel like I've been dropped in the middle of the ocean at night.
How do I rebuild?
When I've got no time or tools or energy or sanity to pursue myself or my interests? When I spent 15 years dedicating my music to a lie, and now sitting at the piano or picking up a guitar or holding a pen, when I do manage to get a moment to myself, mostly just induces horrible anxiety? I say I've escaped but it's been six years and it all still haunts me. I feel jealous and resentful when my partner closes the door to our room to practice or tells me about plans for his next project. "We need to make time for you, too!" He says. HOW? At what cost? What can I really accomplish with the kids crying for me on the other side of the door? I don't know. I really don't.
I wish I could end this on a positive note but it just wouldn't be authentic. I won't make pithy statements about how the sacrifice is all worth it in the end. I know everything will be fine and I'm really not looking for encouragement or pity. Just know that if you're in the same boat, you are not alone. This shit is hard.
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