Motherhood and Writing: Two Women on the Salvation of Maintaining Their Creativity

Motherhood is supposed to be fulfilling. It’s supposed to be all sepia-colored sentimental good times. And, I mean, there are those times. I have an extensive collection of dried weeds gathered by small hands and given to me as bouquets. I have several hand “written” cards celebrating birthdays, holidays, and just random Thursday afternoons. I can also tell you in great detail what it was like to hear my child laugh for the first time. But. But I don’t always want to tell that story. In fact, I rarely do. Here’s a simple question: “How are you doing?” We hear it countless times and take it for granted as the largely superficial question it is. I don’t. I used to, but now I’m anxious to hear it. From anyone. Most of the time, since having kids, people don’t ask me how I am; they ask how my kids are doing. Since having kids, people don’t ask me how I am; they ask how my kids are doing. Even my mother stopped asking how I was doing because that’s the thing about motherhood — it not only becomes the most important thing about you, it becomes the only thing about you. I don’t get “How are you doing?” I get: “How are the kids?,” “How’s the family?,” “How old are your kids now?,” “What grade are the kids in now?,” and every possible variation on that theme imaginable – up to and including asking about my kids’ excrement… over dinner. We erase women who become parents by reducing them to only motherhood as if we weren’t fully realized people before, as if we cannot continue to be in…