The Mother Object
I like to be my children’s chair. I get to hold them. They feel held. It’s synergistic.
When I’m an object for them, I retain independence of mind. Chairs are free to think chair thoughts while upholding chair responsibilities. But frequently those thoughts are on other chair responsibilities.
So, I’m a chair.
I like to be my children’s radio. If they want to listen to someone counting to 999, I count. They count along. I’ve sang row row row your boat for hours on end with a sore throat while driving on a highway at night through road construction and torrential rain. It comforted them. I teach them. This pleases me. Plus, it’s meditative.
I do set boundaries. I no longer night drive with babies.
But mostly I am a mother object. Even with a sore throat.
I pick up snacks for them. I pick up snack wrappers after them. I pick them up from school, then unpack their snack boxes.
I heat their bodies in bed in the morning. I heat their bodies in bed at night.
In the mornings, I think how am I so lucky? It is a truth.
On some evenings, I lie on the dirty part of our dining room rug, and tears spring to my eyes, not from sadness, but exhaustion. It is a truth.
When I reflect on the exhaustion and consider offloading some of these duties, the thought brings the sad type of tears to my eyes.
So, I’m a tap.
I read somewhere it’s the estrogen that makes me do this. It elicits a sacrificial response for women of childbearing age.
But even as my battery, with its diminishing endurance, recharges on the dirty rug, I know that if the ‘mother object’ were a pill, I’d take the drug recreationally. In fact, on drugs, I’ve reclined in far worse. And then, there was never a five-year-old who found me, reached out their hand, kissed my cheek, and said: “Here, lovely mother, let me help you stand back up.”
Then we lie on his bottom bunk with his little brother on my other side, and read a book that I used to find a terribly dangerous tale of self-sacrificial generosity.
And as my children drifted off to sleep, I thought to myself, take my time, my mind, my body, my apples, my leaves, my branches.
I have everything. I am a mom.
P.S. I also enjoy being an object for my husband. You may consider any of the following part two:
How to Seduce A Tired Mom
I write about sex because I like sex. But I’m still a human woman who gets tired, and wants someone (my man) to take the lead.
My favorite type of 'period sex'
On some of those evenings when all I can do is collapse, I collapse onto him.
Oh what a beautiful reflection on motherhood. It is by far the most rewarding, demeaning, fulfilling, exhausting, important, and overlooked role a human can take on.
It isn’t for everyone, because not everyone has the capacity or willingness to take it on. And it is a role that needs to be supported and properly resourced.
I love that you that you have found this joy within it! Your children are lucky and blessed. And so is your husband. And clearly, so are you, as well!
Such a lovely read, Abigail. A wonderful reflection on your current motherhood journey, with all of its lessons learned, high points, and low points that, even by comparison to other experiences, the low points, while still exhausting, are laced with love. Thank you, as always, for sharing your reflections.