i am become mother the creator of worlds

so, let me try and nail down the purpose of this blog.

i didnt want to be a mother. not as a young girl, not as a teenager, not in young adulthood, not even after my husband wanted kids and we were ostensibly “trying”. when i didnt become pregnant in our first years of trying i didnt worry because what has been on my mind since i was young was the idea of “making it”. perhaps the ambiguity of what i meant by making it should be a pretty clear proof of why i didnt and couldnt make it, but that a different post entirely.

what i found when i did become pregnant and have a child was a different world than i knew existed. as in the title of this blog, momExMachina, you are become god or at least, you are expected to be god.

to riff on oppenheimer: i am become mom the creator of worlds

you do not know how much another creature can need you until you have been a mother. you wont know how much you can love. you wont know the weight of weariness– i dont mean that the weariness of caring for children is greater than other exhaustion, although likely thats true. i mean that your weariness takes on life or death. when the disciples fall asleep in the garden, jesus may lament it, but, really, what are we expecting from them but to be good pals and hang out? but being so tired that you forget to feed your kid, you forget to buckle the seat belt, you leave candles burning–

this isnt [only] exhaustion although certainly thats a part. i have spent an adulthood hiding in blackouts and cycles of addiction, delusions of grandeur, paroxysms of sexMind, hateMind, deadMind. rageMind.

what then for this tiny body?

quite the opposite of Claire Vaye Watkins, i have found —-

[what? what word would probably describe this? not a treasure trove, not a mind field, what then?]

a world.

i have found not a lack of subject but more than i had ever imagined. and motherhood strikes me as this nearly unexplored planet. because i, like Watkins, was brought up in proper relation to Great White Men and their scribblings. and they didnt cover motherhood. they couldnt.

what then you find in this world is that all you had were postcards. Mary Cassat paintings, medieval icons of madonna and child, these depictions of piety and sentiment.

there exists a gruesome degree of literature exploring to just how gruesome a degree ones mother has wrecked one. [and i would be remiss not to admit that i initiated therapy precisely so i too could discuss my mother and my snarling rage at her and all she is not]

there is one further piece, which is that while i do this for my own sake, entirely, as i do not expect [nor want] an audience, i would wish to pass on the beginnings of this idea: that mothers have a special relationship to ontology. that question /does life exsist, or just cells?/, that love for something which has not yet begun to breath, makes it apparent to me that there is investigative work to be done here. as i am not a philosopher i cannot solve this but if i could do one thing it would be to put those questions out there. to map out for myself this world, to understand this terrain that i now love [but also realize: you can never leave. quite the cold opposite of walking away from omelas], but also to start a torch [or be a part of a torch, as it is likely i am not the only one thinking on these lines] for the mother-philosopher coming after me.


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