Responsibility

When I was young, hell, even when I was in my twenties, I was told that I wasn't responsible. I struggled through childhood with anxiety, depression and, frankly, a highly creative and acute mind. Whatever my diagnosis would have been it probably wouldn't have been right (It was the 70's) and I was left to deal with the perception and the labeling that I was "hyper", "irresponsible" and even "unreliable". I heard that. I heard it loud and clear. And though I fought to disprove it, I believed it long into my twenties until I started to truly differentiate myself, prove myself in a world that required that I follow through, finish things on time, colour in the lines. I spent so much time and energy thinking about responsibility...trying to take it, hoping people would see it in me.

And now I have too much.


By the time I was 27, I was married and pregnant and had more responsibility than I new what to do with. In a year, I had gained responsibility for not only myself but TWO other beings. And it was crippling. I was terrified of losing my husband (to a drunk driver, a red ant attack...anything!) and overcome by the responsibility of caring for a child.

I have always wanted children, always wanted to be a mom. It was a plan of mine to make sure I had children before I was 30 because I wanted to be young and fun and full of energy. I had a picture, a vision, of what motherhood would be like. I rushed to get married, rushed to get pregnant, rushed to create the picture of family and normalcy that I wanted to be in the middle of. And when my first child was born I realized how different the reality was.


I spent the first three months of pregnancy wishing I wasn't pregnant. I spent the first two years of my first child's life, wondering if I had made the right decision. I wasn't the fun, energetic mom that I thought I would be. I was young, but I was tired, and terribly anxious, I was depressed and scared and I felt alone in those feelings. I felt judged for those feelings. I felt like it wasn't OK to be bored at home with my beautiful baby. I felt that it wasn't OK to want to get away by myself every second that I possibly could, to dream of getting in my car and just driving far far away.

I have spent most of my thirties coming to grips with the weight of the responsibility of motherhood: learning to accept what I can and let go of the rest. Now, I can enjoy a little more, relax, let loose. But I am sad. I mourn for the those baby days those days I wished away, couldn't get through quick enough. That is the true cruelty of motherhood: that by the time you figure it out, it is over.