This morning I had to take our 105 Lb wolf to the vet to get his ear checked. I, of course, had the toddler in tow (he’s on the very early side of toddlerhood) who looks like he got in a fight with the cement porch steps, because he did–big clownish red scrape all over his nose.
Also, I’m over 7 months pregnant, and I don’t know exactly what this kid is up to, but I think he moved to a new position this morning which made me feel like I have to waddle and take deep, dramatic sighs every time I sit down.
Basically I think I have become the complete stereotype of harried-mother-of-young-children. You see her in all the sitcoms and movies. She’s rarely a main character, but rather the friend of the main character who inadvertently convinces said protagonist that they will never have children because it looks exhausting (it is). As a side-note, she’s usually portrayed as obnoxious, pathetic, sanctimonious, or all three.
At the very least I do feel a little pathetic and irritable when I’m trying to wrangle giant wolves, wily toddlers, or somersaulting babies under my ribcage. But, for goodness’ sake, women have been doing this forever, all around the world, under all different circumstances, so I’m not complaining. I’m just being amused at the somewhat silly picture I must present when I’m out and about, and feeling very empathetic towards other women, all around the world and throughout history, who are or have been in the same boat.
I have to confess, nothing–nothing–has broadened my empathy quite like being in this most typical and stereotypical of circumstances. When my husband is overseas for prolonged periods of time, I can’t help but think of single moms. When I take a hot shower to relax at the end of a rough day, I can’t help but think of what an absurd luxury hot piped-in water is; many tired, weary pregnant moms don’t have this. When I look at my kid and fear for his future–fear harm coming to him–I can’t help but think of other mothers whose kids are vulnerable to far more danger, making those fears all the harder to bear, all the harder to dismiss.
I could write a full-fledged essay on that, no joke, but I’ll leave it there.
I have been tentatively dipping my toe into writing this story that’s been swimming around in my head for years, but which gets hard to pin down sometimes. I literally only have three pages of it, but I have a few of those rich, soul-grabbing scenes in my mind’s eye (meaning, the scenes that grab my soul, not necessarily anyone else’s…that remains to be seen).
But man has it been hard to kick myself into gear. Wolves, and toddlers, and pregnancy and what-not. I made a end-of-month word count goal for myself, which would sound pathetic to most, but is very ambitious for me at the present time. Working on those new-story muscles that haven’t been stretched in a good long while.
I’m also re-reading my book, because I’m usually ridiculous like that. If I go too long without reading it, I miss it, and get excited to go back and make sure I still like it, and enjoy bits that I forgot I wrote and, you know, headdesk over obnoxious typos I didn’t catch, and scrutinize everything : )
But mostly, I try to enjoy it.