__________________________________
Amomynous
By Stephanie Kemp
Amomynous
By Stephanie Kemp
It is the day after Mother’s Day and I am thinking about moms.
My mom.
My husband’s mom.
My stepmom.
My dad’s mom.
My mom’s mom.
My life as a mom.
My sisters as moms.
My friends that are moms.
My friends that aren’t.
_____________
If we are lucky, our love story in life begins with our mothers. They grow us, feed us, protect us, sacrifice and compromise for us.
They talk to us.
They rub us.
They start us.
They give themselves to us.
Literally.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Sometimes they shine brighter from being a mom.
Sometimes they lose their own light.
Sometimes they explode.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Creatively.
There is so much written about motherhood that I have never put a pen to paper on the subject.
Redundant.
What new light could I possibly shed.
Anything of interest might hurt my mom’s feelings.
Or my mother in law’s feelings.
Or my stepmom’s feelings.
Or.
God forbid, my daughters’ feelings.
My entire life I knew I wanted to be a mom. It was the holy grail of what I wanted in the big picture of my life. And I did everything I needed and wanted to do before finally having my babies at 37 and 40.
I am so head over heels in love with my daughters that I am at loss for words.
Maybe because it is the day after Mother’s Day and I am not with them.
Maybe it is because I am in a forest and hear birds.
I am happiest in a forest.
Maybe it is because I know this goes fast and I don’t want to waste time writing about them when I could be smelling their heads or marveling at the effort they are putting into their cursive writing or trying in earnest to finish their mushy bananas to please mean morning me while not vomiting silently into their own mouths.
They are good and beautiful girls.
Kind.
Strong (one outwardly, one inwardly, both inherently even when they don’t know or feel it).
Artistic.
Smart.
Fun.
Funny.
Happy.
And, thank god, knock on wood, please don’t ever jinx it and let it remain true until they die peacefully at 89 in their sleep, healthy.
_____________
I struggle. Especially lately but it is getting better.
My husband, who is amazing and much kinder than I am (at least within the circle of our marriage) refinanced our house so that I could come to the woods.
Birds.
Space.
Seasons.
Water.
Shhhhh….
I am 48. I sometimes round up to 50 to practice the sound of it. The thought of it. The meaning of it. People misinterpret this as me lamenting my age. They say stupid but well intentioned shit like, “You’re as young as you feel!” “Stop it! You’re not anywhere near 50!” “Don’t go there!” “Hahahahaha!”
I don’t fear my age or (for the most part) lament anything that comes along with it. (Hello fucking crease between my eyes, maniacal changing hair texture, broken finger that won’t heal, moody bleeding gums). I celebrate it. I am fascinated by it. I am eternally grateful to be aging. And while I might not be aging quite the way I imagined (see Charlotte Rampling and/or Julie Christie), I am strong. Healthy. Able to still go out in the world always remembering how lucky I am even when I can’t find pretty or hold onto nice.
My mother, who is insanely wise in human kindness and the strength not always seen by the naked (or often collectively mean spirited societal) eye, reminds me every time we speak:
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.”
“Stay flexible and keep your sense of humor.”
“Take a walk or clean a closet.”
“You can only control yourself.”
I used to roll my eyes at her platitudes. Her simplicity. Her smoking through her death trap cough. Her choice in husbands. Her inability to acknowledge the dark side.
But that was when I had the luxury of taking her for granted. She was such a presence that I could judge her. Hang up quickly if I wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. Tell her I couldn’t wait to see her in July without worrying or even entertaining the thought that she might not still be here in July.
_____________
I am a mom.
I am a writer. (I have pay stubs to prove this. To you or to myself.)
I am a wife.
I am a producer who hates to produce and only produces because it’s the only way I know to get something done as I am terrible with blobby bosses and/or big masses of well intentioned but bureaucratically unproductive people.
I can have it all done before I would even be halfway through telling you how to do it.
So I do it.
Then I get mad at my husband because I am tired and mean from doing too many things.
People who don’t know me but think they do would describe me as the most social person in the world - the mayor of wherever they know me from.
This is a lie.
The people who do know know me know that I wear social skills like a halloween mask but am only happy when I have the promise (near, not distant) of space and solitude.
Birds.
Refinance.
Olivia and Frances.
I love my husband.
_____________
I get mean when I am not being creative. If I am not walking a mountain or pedaling a bike.
I am currently jealous of (formerly inspired by) anyone doing anything creative. Unless it has to do with dancing, which still scares me.
If you are:
Cooking
Blogging
Home improving
Painting
Driving across the country by yourself
God forbid writing
Or making cool moving pictures
I am jealous of you.
I get mean if I spend too much time with people who drain me.
If I go online without purpose.
If I go too long without picking up a pen or a book.
For 20 years I had 3 friends who hung my daily moon, Anna, Garv, Eileen. They were all I needed.
I had adorable boyfriends who loved me and made me laugh or at least smile from my soul.
But I was bored.
Suffocated.
Furious.
I was going to have a child on my own. No matter what.
I knew I wasn’t cut out for marriage.
My parents’ marriage imploded when I was in 4th grade.
My mom never recovered (this would hurt her feelings).
My dad married his brother’s ex-girlfriend. (This would infuriate my stepmom. My dad is dead.)
My stepdad and I couldn’t stand each other. (He is dead too, but has some nice children and grandchildren so I feel shitty saying this but would be able to defend it, if necessary.)
My uncle found his perfect life love in my aunt (I should call them and tell them I miss them).
Despite/because of all this…
I am 12 years into a marriage with my best friend and partner.
In work.
Life.
Parenting.
Love. Good and hard.
He believes in marriage.
His parents are still together.
They travel and collect tribal arts.
His dad won’t let his mom get a massage from a male therapist out of jealousy, although I am quite sure she would love one.
He lives under the umbrella of marriage while I need to (at least pretend to) “choose” marriage every day. If I thought there was no choice I would not be able to stay.
_____________
I want to end it here and know that when my daughters read this they will realize I came around. That it will all be fine.
How do I explain that it sounds like that because I am in the woods?
That I sometimes want to cut and run?
That I can’t create and I blame it on them?
That I can’t stand some of their bratty friends and several of said friends douchey parents?
These are not things that a well adjusted (perhaps in appearance only) mother says.
Is there such a thing?
_____________
But I digress and it is almost time for me to leave my woods and I won’t have finished everything I need to put on paper in case this is the last thing I ever write!
(The woods fill me with joy and beautiful and liberating fatalism).
I hope my daughters read this when they are old enough not to be scared of my words or angry with my assessment of (some of) their friends.
And this was supposed to be a love story about motherhood!
_____________
There is a picture of me and my mom at Christmas. I am 5 and wearing a green dress that I loved because it didn’t have any buttons. I have pigtails and unfortunate self cut bangs. I am happy but remember that I had just dodged a bullet for something I did that pissed off my dad.
My mom is by my side. Looking at me. She is laughing with her perfect smile, although only half of it and her face are visible. You can’t tell from the picture, but I remember she is holding my hands out of the frame.
This is my beautiful mom.
The one who gave up her space in the frame for me. The one who was content with only half of her spectacular smile on view.
The one who held my hands when no one else could see that I needed them to be held from whatever came the moment before.
AMOMYNOUS.
This is the mother I want to be.
This is what I struggle with every day.
And everything I am grateful for.
How to explain it to my daughters?
Maybe my mom will help me figure it out.
Because even today she is always holding my hand out of frame.
My mom.
My husband’s mom.
My stepmom.
My dad’s mom.
My mom’s mom.
My life as a mom.
My sisters as moms.
My friends that are moms.
My friends that aren’t.
_____________
If we are lucky, our love story in life begins with our mothers. They grow us, feed us, protect us, sacrifice and compromise for us.
They talk to us.
They rub us.
They start us.
They give themselves to us.
Literally.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Sometimes they shine brighter from being a mom.
Sometimes they lose their own light.
Sometimes they explode.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Creatively.
There is so much written about motherhood that I have never put a pen to paper on the subject.
Redundant.
What new light could I possibly shed.
Anything of interest might hurt my mom’s feelings.
Or my mother in law’s feelings.
Or my stepmom’s feelings.
Or.
God forbid, my daughters’ feelings.
My entire life I knew I wanted to be a mom. It was the holy grail of what I wanted in the big picture of my life. And I did everything I needed and wanted to do before finally having my babies at 37 and 40.
I am so head over heels in love with my daughters that I am at loss for words.
Maybe because it is the day after Mother’s Day and I am not with them.
Maybe it is because I am in a forest and hear birds.
I am happiest in a forest.
Maybe it is because I know this goes fast and I don’t want to waste time writing about them when I could be smelling their heads or marveling at the effort they are putting into their cursive writing or trying in earnest to finish their mushy bananas to please mean morning me while not vomiting silently into their own mouths.
They are good and beautiful girls.
Kind.
Strong (one outwardly, one inwardly, both inherently even when they don’t know or feel it).
Artistic.
Smart.
Fun.
Funny.
Happy.
And, thank god, knock on wood, please don’t ever jinx it and let it remain true until they die peacefully at 89 in their sleep, healthy.
_____________
I struggle. Especially lately but it is getting better.
My husband, who is amazing and much kinder than I am (at least within the circle of our marriage) refinanced our house so that I could come to the woods.
Birds.
Space.
Seasons.
Water.
Shhhhh….
I am 48. I sometimes round up to 50 to practice the sound of it. The thought of it. The meaning of it. People misinterpret this as me lamenting my age. They say stupid but well intentioned shit like, “You’re as young as you feel!” “Stop it! You’re not anywhere near 50!” “Don’t go there!” “Hahahahaha!”
I don’t fear my age or (for the most part) lament anything that comes along with it. (Hello fucking crease between my eyes, maniacal changing hair texture, broken finger that won’t heal, moody bleeding gums). I celebrate it. I am fascinated by it. I am eternally grateful to be aging. And while I might not be aging quite the way I imagined (see Charlotte Rampling and/or Julie Christie), I am strong. Healthy. Able to still go out in the world always remembering how lucky I am even when I can’t find pretty or hold onto nice.
My mother, who is insanely wise in human kindness and the strength not always seen by the naked (or often collectively mean spirited societal) eye, reminds me every time we speak:
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.”
“Stay flexible and keep your sense of humor.”
“Take a walk or clean a closet.”
“You can only control yourself.”
I used to roll my eyes at her platitudes. Her simplicity. Her smoking through her death trap cough. Her choice in husbands. Her inability to acknowledge the dark side.
But that was when I had the luxury of taking her for granted. She was such a presence that I could judge her. Hang up quickly if I wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. Tell her I couldn’t wait to see her in July without worrying or even entertaining the thought that she might not still be here in July.
_____________
I am a mom.
I am a writer. (I have pay stubs to prove this. To you or to myself.)
I am a wife.
I am a producer who hates to produce and only produces because it’s the only way I know to get something done as I am terrible with blobby bosses and/or big masses of well intentioned but bureaucratically unproductive people.
I can have it all done before I would even be halfway through telling you how to do it.
So I do it.
Then I get mad at my husband because I am tired and mean from doing too many things.
People who don’t know me but think they do would describe me as the most social person in the world - the mayor of wherever they know me from.
This is a lie.
The people who do know know me know that I wear social skills like a halloween mask but am only happy when I have the promise (near, not distant) of space and solitude.
Birds.
Refinance.
Olivia and Frances.
I love my husband.
_____________
I get mean when I am not being creative. If I am not walking a mountain or pedaling a bike.
I am currently jealous of (formerly inspired by) anyone doing anything creative. Unless it has to do with dancing, which still scares me.
If you are:
Cooking
Blogging
Home improving
Painting
Driving across the country by yourself
God forbid writing
Or making cool moving pictures
I am jealous of you.
I get mean if I spend too much time with people who drain me.
If I go online without purpose.
If I go too long without picking up a pen or a book.
For 20 years I had 3 friends who hung my daily moon, Anna, Garv, Eileen. They were all I needed.
I had adorable boyfriends who loved me and made me laugh or at least smile from my soul.
But I was bored.
Suffocated.
Furious.
I was going to have a child on my own. No matter what.
I knew I wasn’t cut out for marriage.
My parents’ marriage imploded when I was in 4th grade.
My mom never recovered (this would hurt her feelings).
My dad married his brother’s ex-girlfriend. (This would infuriate my stepmom. My dad is dead.)
My stepdad and I couldn’t stand each other. (He is dead too, but has some nice children and grandchildren so I feel shitty saying this but would be able to defend it, if necessary.)
My uncle found his perfect life love in my aunt (I should call them and tell them I miss them).
Despite/because of all this…
I am 12 years into a marriage with my best friend and partner.
In work.
Life.
Parenting.
Love. Good and hard.
He believes in marriage.
His parents are still together.
They travel and collect tribal arts.
His dad won’t let his mom get a massage from a male therapist out of jealousy, although I am quite sure she would love one.
He lives under the umbrella of marriage while I need to (at least pretend to) “choose” marriage every day. If I thought there was no choice I would not be able to stay.
_____________
I want to end it here and know that when my daughters read this they will realize I came around. That it will all be fine.
How do I explain that it sounds like that because I am in the woods?
That I sometimes want to cut and run?
That I can’t create and I blame it on them?
That I can’t stand some of their bratty friends and several of said friends douchey parents?
These are not things that a well adjusted (perhaps in appearance only) mother says.
Is there such a thing?
_____________
But I digress and it is almost time for me to leave my woods and I won’t have finished everything I need to put on paper in case this is the last thing I ever write!
(The woods fill me with joy and beautiful and liberating fatalism).
I hope my daughters read this when they are old enough not to be scared of my words or angry with my assessment of (some of) their friends.
And this was supposed to be a love story about motherhood!
_____________
There is a picture of me and my mom at Christmas. I am 5 and wearing a green dress that I loved because it didn’t have any buttons. I have pigtails and unfortunate self cut bangs. I am happy but remember that I had just dodged a bullet for something I did that pissed off my dad.
My mom is by my side. Looking at me. She is laughing with her perfect smile, although only half of it and her face are visible. You can’t tell from the picture, but I remember she is holding my hands out of the frame.
This is my beautiful mom.
The one who gave up her space in the frame for me. The one who was content with only half of her spectacular smile on view.
The one who held my hands when no one else could see that I needed them to be held from whatever came the moment before.
AMOMYNOUS.
This is the mother I want to be.
This is what I struggle with every day.
And everything I am grateful for.
How to explain it to my daughters?
Maybe my mom will help me figure it out.
Because even today she is always holding my hand out of frame.