The Hand that Rocks the Cradle Burns the System Feminism never really resonated with me. I felt that for the most part, women were treated fairly equally, and I had never had an issue with it. I felt that those who reacted so passionately about it was something that I could never understand. It was as if they were personalizing propaganda, making it a big deal. However, as I grew older, I felt more and more frustrated about things that would happen to me. The way boys would treat me knowing that I played sports really confused me. They would expect me to be frail and fragile, but were annoyed when I had opinions on things. I would hear jokes about how women belong in the kitchen. I would do well on a test and get called a know-it-all, and if I did poorly, that was ok; my job was to raise kids anyway. I would feel frustrated time and time again, but I always thought I was alone. I worked as a waitress at a place where the owner would only hire women. Not because he believed in the work ethic, but because, a direct quote from him, “girls won’t talk back or challenge me.” Looking back now, I can see how naive I was in thinking that feminism was unnecessary. ​ Things really started to change for me when I became a mom. It was something that I wasn’t expecting to feel. Anger. As a mom, I am responsible for everything. Sure, I can get help when I ask, but only when I ask. I am the one who wakes up ten times a night for feedings, cooks dinner, cleans, stays home when the baby is sick, contributes financially to our family, and does not complain about anything. The frustration and anger grew more and more. I thought I was alone. Social media shows other moms who are happy and have all the help they need (or who don’t need help at all) and nothing is ever wrong. I didn’t think there was any other way to be. In spite of my busy life, I decided that I wanted to complete my master’s degree before spring semester began. I quickly registered for the courses that I needed and classes began. Composition and rhetoric and Moby Dick were the two topics of my first classes. Nothing really made an impact on me. The only thing that changed was the amount of stress I felt taking classes and raising a one-year-old daughter, all while having a job. Over the summer, I decided to take a Women’s Movement literature course. I was particularly excited for this topic because I don’t read much about women, but it was intriguing to me. Right from the start, something felt different about this subject. Most of the other classes’ assignments were just boring enough to complete assignments and move on, but this one felt different. One of the first things we talked about was feminism. The first book we read was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I was hooked. The way Plath described how she was feeling and the story that she told was incredible. I found myself crying on several occasions throughout the book. I felt seen. This particular section hit home for me: I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was E e Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet (77). I realized that was the feeling that I have felt so many times on my path of motherhood. I see all of the things that I want in life on different figs, feeling like I can only pick one. I realized then that I chose a fig before I was quite ready to make that choice. I felt validated by a woman years before my time. ​ As the semester progressed, I felt like I was absorbing so much information and feelings about feminism that connected to who I am as a person. The next book we read, Fear Of Flying by Erica Jong, changed my life. As a busy working mom, I decided the best way to fully indulge myself in the readings was to listen to the books throughout the day. I would listen to it during bedtime routines, walks, cooking dinner, cleaning, etc. For me, this was a powerful way for the books to make an impact. I listened to sections about motherhood and loneliness as I rocked my screaming daughter to sleep at night. I listened to the story about men guilting women while I did dishes as tears slid down my cheeks after a fight with my husband. It was as if my life was giving me real examples of what I was hearing in the book. I felt so validated. My life is consumed with the overwhelming feeling of guilt. One comment about how expectations weren’t/aren’t met by someone and I melt completely into a ball of emotions. I hate it. Jong wrote, I feel guilty for writing poems when I should be cooking. I feel guilty for everything. You don’t have to beat a woman if you can make her feel guilty. That’s Isadora Wing’s first principle of the war between sexes. Women are their own worst enemies. And guilt is the main weapon of self-torture…Show me a woman who doesn’t feel guilty and I’ll show you a man (179). The phrase angered me and brought me to tears. This is how I am being beaten down: by myself and by others. I decided that I wanted to truly understand feminism and how it affects me as a woman and a mother. In the book Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience & Institution by Adrienne Rich, she wrote of different experiences of motherhood. She explicates the domestication of motherhood, anger, tenderness, and patriarchy. While I was researching and studying this book, I felt a deep connection to Rich. She lays the groundwork for conversations that are often thought of, but never spoken out loud. She gives an honest response to the labor of loving and caring for children without thinking of herself. In the first chapter “Anger and Tenderness,” she shares how motherhood started for her with expected and unexpected side effects. She repeats the phrase, “This is always what women have done”(6). She unpacks her experience with anger and rage towards her children and the guilt and resentment that follow. But in her head, “this is always what women have done.” I have found myself feeling that same way. I get lost in myself trying to battle through hard days with a sick toddler, a demanding job, and a fight with my husband. I use the same excuse, “this is always what women have done.” Something about that phrase comforted yet enraged me. How have things been this hard for this long? It made me want to slam the door on my family and scream, This is not fair! Rich goes on to say, “We are also, often to our amazement, flooded with feelings both of love and violence intenser and fiercer than any we had ever known… ‘If anyone laid a hand on my child, I’d murder him’” (19). These emotions so violently felt are something that I had never grappled with before. The rage that bubbles up over the smallest things leaves me in anger that I am not proud of. Rich further quotes Little Women, “I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so”(30). After reading more, I realized I was not alone. As discussed in All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership by Darcy Lockman, she writes of different experiences in marriage and how women have been surviving all of history without full help from the father. Lockman says, “Men are not socialized to feel guilty for having freedom or for not being there for other people”(32). Men, while being an important part of the child's life, do not hold the same responsibility for that child physically or emotionally. Spending time away from their children can be rationalized to be logical with no emotion connected to it. Mothers often crumble with the guilt of leaving their children with a babysitter to do a simple task. Men don’t. Lockman explains, “I became my own worst enemy, conflicted about my right to ask, self-conscious about my rising anger, and too often stuck with the choice between fighting or just taking care of it, whatever it was, on my own”(48). A lot of women feel this way. It is easier to do everything myself instead of begging for help or nagging to get something done. Unfortunately, the result of always doing it myself has made me complicit in the patriarchy of parenthood. I find myself holding grudges and resentment towards my husband because I end up doing more than I can handle. Growing up, someone was always louder, stronger and more opinionated than me. Anytime I felt frustrated or angry, my emotions would take over and instead of voicing how I felt, I would cry nonstop. My anger was often mistaken for weakness or menstrual symptoms. As a woman, my emotions were constantly dismissed. As a mother, my emotions are blamed on hormones, my lack of logic, or menstruation. Any chance for me to be taken seriously only comes when I have complete control over how I respond or react. Men, on the other hand, can have violent outbursts at work, watching sports, or at their wives, and can blame it simply on a “long day at work” and patriarchy has normalized accepting that. I know the inequality in men and women is steep, and to me, this makes the patriarchy worse. As a mother, I always thought my intuition or gut feeling would be responded to empathetically by doctors and family members. Instead, it has seemed to push me lower into the ground of being disbelieved. I thought that my anger or feelings would be just as valid as someone else’s. Rich said, “Mother-love is supposed to be continuous, unconditional. Love and anger cannot coexist. Female anger threatens the institution of motherhood”(30). Taking a natural response away from mothers oppresses them into emotionless beings that cannot trust or share what they feel. Being a mother and an academic has been more challenging than I anticipated. I thought that I would be praised for continuing my education and trying to give a better life to my children. My first adult job ended in termination once they found out I was pregnant. The startup tech company run by men could not fathom a woman being capable enough to continue working after that. Rich said, “Not only have women been told to stick to motherhood, but we have been told that our intellectual or aesthetic creations were inappropriate, inconsequential, or scandalous, an attempt to become ‘Like men’ or to escape from the ‘real’ tasks of adult womanhood: marriage and childbearing”(22). In 2016, Elseline Hoekzema, Ph.D conducted an MRI study on twenty-five first-time mothers. They took MRI scans of each of the women’s brains. They compared those scans to twenty women who had not had children. Hoekzema found, “The women that had recently given birth had such pronounced biological changes in their brains that a computer algorithm could separate new mothers from those who had never given birth” (Gritters). Some researchers believe that the brain changes to make room for different connections to help focus on specific tasks or behaviors through raising an infant. After giving birth myself, I feel more stupid. My memory is worse and I can’t recall how to do simple assignments in classes. I never liked the term “mommy brain” but unfortunately, it is real. This reality is another thing held over mothers’ heads when seeking employment postpartum. Instead of seeking help for women postpartum or recognizing their strengths, the male-centered workplace ostracizes women for being mothers. During my first childbirth, I was shocked to see how I was treated by medical staff at the hospital. During the administration of my epidural, my anesthesiologist could not stop talking to the other nurse in the room about his chickens. He talked while preparing the procedure and during it. The whole time, I tried to tell them that I was going to throw up. I could feel it coming, but nobody would listen. I started to say it again, a little more panicked this time. Nothing. Finally, I screamed. They responded as if I was being irrational and rude, interrupting their very stimulating and appropriate conversation. He ended up placing the epidural incorrectly, which left me in more pain than I could bear. He had to redo it. This time, he did it in silence. Rich also shares the history of the childbirth experience for women. She said, “In Judeo-Christian theology, a woman’s pain in childbirth is punishment from God… Since the curse laid on Eve in Genesis was taken literally well into the nineteenth century, the mother in labor had to expect to suffer passively”(120). Midwives were deemed “witches” and burned at the stake for trying to help relieve the pain of childbirth. Having a man in the room during birth was unheard of until the 1960s. Rich goes on to explain, “Patriarchy has told the woman in labor that her suffering was purposive–was the purpose of her existence; that the new life she was bringing forth (especially if male) was of value and that her own value depended on bringing it forth”(155). Women were meant to suffer. That was just how it was supposed to be. In the Victorian period, as a punishment for women “acting out,” male doctors would remove their ovaries and clitoris (167). Finally, I decided as a human being, I deserve to be valued and respected. I am an educated person who has done many hard things in my life. Being a woman has been challenging and painful but rewarding in so many ways. All of my experiences flow through my pieces that I have created. I used my own life and feelings to create a sense of belonging in my work. Some may be hard to read or share with others, but I am tired of women being silent about or unheard when they share the trials and pain they face. I wish someone had been more candid with me about the toll motherhood would take on me. I want to share real experiences instead of “You got this mama!” Because some days, I don’t. Feminism has changed the way that I have viewed myself and my role as a mother. It has radicalized me to the point where I know what I deserve and will voice my experiences without shame or hesitation. As seen in my poetry and prose, my pieces are based on experiences and feelings that I have had as a mother. I tried to write the real raw emotions that I felt. I have sometimes found that other moms will sugarcoat the experiences that they have. I tried to give an honest recount of my experiences. I wanted to share the inner thoughts and feelings that I have towards motherhood and how feminism illuminates that struggle. The first piece in my collection is “Marks of Growth” and it is a very physical piece for me. It displays the insecurities of my body and the struggles that I have when I see the aftermath of it all. My body shows scars and fat that I didn’t want to have. To me, this highlights what I think most mothers see when they look down. I approached this subject with sensitivity and humor. Wishing away the marks will not change anything. The piece is an honest description of who I have become and how I choose to accept it. I was inspired to write this after I read New Mother by Jannette Ayachi. She writes of the cold experience that happens to your body before and after birth. One part that really stood out to me follows: This is the metamorphosis, a new skin shed, the older part​ ​ locked in a bathroom somewhere starving and slightly sad stepping back further into previous chapters​ ​ so when winter strips the trees of their bark we will stand naked in the mirror​ ​ and call out our own names. To me, this is a beautiful representation of the change that mothers go through. The line, “starving and slightly sad” hits home for me. The changes that the body and mind go through in the process of birth and postpartum are hard and confusing. The way one longs for the new version of their body but mourns the loss of the one they once knew and loved is beautiful and accurate. ​ The next piece in my collection is “A Mom,” written in the heat of frustration and anger. I have worked so hard to be where I am today only to be told that I am not enough, because I am just a mom. Entering the workforce again as a parent is a whole new world. Employers don’t want to hire someone who will constantly have to leave or call in sick due to a child. Of course, it is illegal to not hire because of that, but they will find a reason. I have dreamed of working and earning to provide for my family for as long as I can remember. I would love to be a stay-at-home mom but at this time of my life, it is not an option. I have been facing the harsh reality all at once. You can either have a career and be successful, or, have a family. Transitioning into a new career or different job while pregnant or with small children is so much harder than I thought it would be. I wanted this poem to convey the struggles that I have faced trying to re-enter the workforce. I feel like I have been crushed over and over again. I hope that one day, the stigma will change. ​ I wrote the non-fiction piece titled “The Mommies on the Bus” in my head one day while I was singing “The Wheels on the Bus” in the car. Twice a week, we would drive to Weber State University, an hour each way, for me to attend my master’s classes. For the most part, she is happy and willing, but some days she feels quite the opposite. She loves to sing and listen to songs in the car and wants me to follow along with the actions. Somedays, it is just hard. Balancing work, school, being a mother, wife, friend is challenging. I often found myself frustrated with the lyrics, “The mommies on the bus say ‘shh shh shh… all through the town.” As if that is all we do! I understand that if the song actually said what the mommies say, it would no longer be a fun kids song. This piece is hard for me to share because of the way I feel sometimes. The phrase I use in the piece, “I don’t want to be a mom today” rings true, but engulfs me with guilt. My inspiration for this piece is just honesty. I have heard the phrase,“You got this mama!” more times than I can count. I just wished someone would tell me, I don’t want to be a mom either, instead of just encouraging me to be happy. ​ Completing this collection of writing has given me the opportunity to research different women and topics that are important to me. I have been able to find my voice in the loud roar of patriarchy. I am able to write honestly and truthfully about my experiences as a feminist mother. I hope that through my research and writing, I will be able to inspire others to speak up about their own experiences with motherhood and give them the courage to not stay silent. I want to give the voices back to the women who feel unheard and unappreciated. One day I want my daughters to have the life I have always wanted them to have, but to do that, they need to have a voice that isn’t wavering. Feminism gives that power back. Marks of Growth I fill the bathtub full of warm soapy water. I light a candle and start to get undressed. I start with my shirt. Pulling my arms from the sleeves then over my head. I set it down in the pile of clothes on the floor. I reach my arm around to undo the clasps on my bra. The release makes my breasts fall a little. More than I would like. I set it in the pile. I don’t want to look in the mirror. I know I won’t like what I see. I unbutton my jeans and slide them down with my underwear. My hands slide past the purple streaks traced across my hips, reaching towards my thighs. I turn my gaze to my inner legs. More purple streaks. As if both sides of my skin decided to pull a different way. The constant stretching for nine months made it impossible to stay the same. I step out of each pant leg leaving my disheveled clothes on the floor. I dip my toe in the water checking to see if the temperature is ok. Too hot, but that doesn’t stop me. My life only gives me the chance for a break from seven to ten every night, I’m not wasting a second of it. The water burns my feet as I step in. I wince a little and lower my body into it. Once in, I try to stretch my legs out, I’m too long. I bend my knees up so I can soak my shoulders. My body pokes out of the bubbles. The bumps and curves that I still cannot recognize. The scars on my stomach from my ectopic pregnancy, still pink as ever. Reminding me of the day a year ago, losing something that I wanted but couldn’t have. The ache is never gone, just less. My breasts resting low on my chest, leaving me feeling like a mother gorilla. It reminds me of the months I spent breastfeeding my daughter, the pain and connection that came from that. I feel tiny flutters deep in my stomach of a tiny baby growing and kicking. My body doesn’t look pregnant quite yet, just chubby. My stomach sticks out of the water, feeling cold to the touch. I close my eyes and fast forward five months. I dream of where I will be and who will be there. I hope there is a baby wrapped in my arms as I walk through the grocery store with a toddler in my cart. Gathering food for dinner in the warm summer heat. I snap back to my surroundings when I hear the small voice coming from the nursery, “mom!” Followed closely by another, “mom!” My stomach drops because my me-time is over. I drain the tub and step out, still soapy, and put my robe on. I open her door and see her standing in her crib. She looks at me with tired eyes and says, “hold you a minute?” I pull her over the railings and rest her on my water soaked chest and hold her in the rocking chair. I close my eyes and think of five years down the road when she no longer wants me to hold her at night. I pull her in a little tighter, hold her a minute. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ A Mom I used to dream of having seven children All running around my house While I make a batch of cookies blaring 2000s hip hop in the background My husband at work I keep checking to see how much longer until I get to see him Our kids wild but behaved The days all the same Busy and happy A perfect marriage and a perfect life Until one day I woke up and smell roses I wanted to be someone Someone strong and resilient Someone who made a difference in others lives But I quickly realized that moms are different Moms are stupid Moms take too much time off People don’t want to hire a pregnant person Maternity leave? Not an option But it's too late for me I’m already a mom I already miss too much work because my kid is sick I can’t remember much anymore What I was going to say Where I put my keys Where her favorite cat is If I have eaten today What you just told me I can’t even find a job My marriage grows and crumbles A flower wilting in the sun An endless swirl of color and noise Busy and sad Not A Person I used to think that feminism was for girls who decided they didn’t want to shave anymore. For the ones who were a little too manly for the men who were interested. I used to think that the only thing that came with it was a bad reputation and aggression toward men. I was wrong. The day I started to get blamed for not keeping a house clean after working all day. The day I got fired after my company found out I was pregnant. The day I was shamed for staying home with my newborn. The day I cried myself to sleep because I didn’t try hard enough with how I looked. For years I woke up every time I heard a cry just so my husband could sleep. The overwhelming feeling of having so much to do but feeling like I am never enough. I realized what matters and why I will fight. I feel the fire burn in my chest each time I hear my husband say “having kids is easy.” I feel the words stick to my mouth because I know I cannot do this alone. I feel the fear of staying. I feel the fear of being alone. I made a mistake. I let him get used to the lack of responsibility I created for him. I thought I was being a good wife, one that was held higher than others. Instead I created a monster. A man who now expects things from me that I don’t want to do anymore. A man who doesn’t understand how the patriarchy hurts me. A life where I don’t get to live my dream.I am a cook, a maid, a mother, and an object. But not a person. ​ ​ Motherhood Haiku Do you see flowers? Pressed against my window sill. Does it make you sad, like me? The smell of pancakes— It makes me think of you Eating them in the car. I see you crying Begging to be picked up. My sweet little girl. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ How Will You Remember Me? Will you remember me on my days where each sound that came out was sharp against my tongue. Will you remember me on the days I spent the whole day playing princesses and doing puzzles on the floor? Will you remember me on my days when I cried because your tiny toes knocked over my freshly pumped breast milk. Will you remember me on the days where we spend the morning in bed playing peekaboo and watching “Go Dog, Go!” Will you remember me on the days I drop you off at daycare and they have to peel your hands from my sleeves. Will you remember me on the days we spent as a family on the grass in the park listening to all the kids playing. Will you remember me with angst and anger when you recall your childhood years? Or will you remember me as the person who would die for you at any given moment? Please, don’t forget me. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ It’s My Birthday, I’ll Cry If I Want To Each year slips by like the pages of a calendar hitting the floor. This year is different. It moves like honey sliding down the side of the jar I left on the counter. Slow and heavy. This year instead of wearing a dress, ​ ​ I’m wearing a diaper. I move slower with the surge of pain bursting between my legs. My nipples rub raw against the pads stuffed in my bra. The tight, twisting sensation pulsates through my chest every two hours Leaving my shirt wet with milk and tears. What do you want to do today? ​ ​ Cry. I drink my coffee in bed next to my tiny baby girl and ​ ​ Cry. I’m happy, I promise. My hormones are riding a roller coaster that I wasn’t invited on. A mom at 24, pretty old by Utah standards. Most of my friends are already pregnant with their third. I change her diaper, then mine. Happy birthday to me. Mom’s night in “I don’t want to be a mom today” I say in my head as I open my eyes To see 3:23 am shining back at me I woke to the sound of a cry that is Different but familiar, the sick cry The cry that is more of a moan The one that requires me to sit In the rocking chair of her dark room All night long Holding her and rocking as she Sweats in her pajamas and lays Her wet head on my chest I am so tired but I know I can’t sleep I smell her breath Hot and sweet blowing in my face I try to put her back in bed But her tiny hands clutch the Sleeves of my shirt telling me She is not asleep I sit back down trying to get Comfy for my night in this chair I should have bought a recliner But I decided the free hand-me-down Would work just as well I decide against my better judgment And bring her to my bed with me Maybe she will sleep next to me I just need a little more sleep I lay her head on my pillow next to Mine and she rolls on to her belly My arm still under her to keep her Feeling secure while we lay there I can’t sleep like this but Now she is asleep I lie there all night looking up at The radiator attached to my ceiling Blowing hot air down on my face I feel the beads of sweat swell on my Neck while I'm tucked under one Sweaty baby and my monster size Minky. I try to close my eyes hoping I will Drift off eventually I feel my body sink into my sheets Then, my alarm goes off It’s time for work. The Worst Day Ever Finally, my day off. My one day where we don’t have to drive to daycare or do anything that I don’t want to do. I hear her on the baby monitor making noises, that's my cue. I put on a sweatshirt and walk to the room next door to pull her out of her crib. She giggles and kicks as I undo the zipper. She’s so happy. We head to the kitchen to make her favorite breakfast: eggs and frozen wild blueberries. This meal is the best but the clean-up is terrible. When she's cleaned her plate, I pull her out of the highchair and take her to the warm, soapy tub waiting for her. I scrub her face and hands with a soft towel. The purple stains lessen but don’t disappear from the skin. I pull her from the tub and get her all dried off. After we get dressed, we decide to go shopping. I start to feel a weird pain on the left side of my lower abdomen. I quickly pull out my phone to Google, “Which side is your appendix on.” I’m safe. It’s on a different side. I quickly move on and we get in the car. First stop before shopping, Dutch Bros. My little sweet treat. Too expensive to have every day, so I make it a weekly occasion. I pull around the lane and I am greeted by the worker. I order the same thing every time I go. I take a second to pretend like I am looking at the menu. I order a medium German Chocolate Mocha Freeze. I also add an extra shot of espresso; it makes the flavor last longer when it melts. I pull up to the next window and roll down my window. The lady hands me my drink. Written on top it says, “have a good day!” with a big smiley face and a heart. Weirdly, it seems to make me happy. We pull out onto the main road. Next stop HomeGoods. The light turned red so I come to a stop. The pain in my side starts to pulse through my body. An aching sharp pain that doesn’t cease. I can barely move my legs. I hold my breath as the light turns green. I know there is an instacare right around the corner. By the time we get there, I am sobbing. The pain is so intense I feel like I can’t move. Nora is in the backseat; I see her turning her head trying to see what all the noise is. I sit and think. My insurance is terrible. This visit alone will cost $300 or more. What if I go in and they say I am just constipated or something. I will be so frustrated. I decide I need to trust my body. I call Payton. I know he’s in class so he won’t answer. I'll try anyway. Voicemail. I text him, “I’m going to Instacare.” To my surprise, he responds right away, “I’ll be home in a minute.” Next, I need to get Nora out of the car seat and take her into the building with me. Bending over about kills me. I sob harder. We walk in the doors. A nurse sees me crying while trying to walk and quickly gets a wheelchair for me. They get my name and birthday and take me straight back to a room. The nurse is friendly, she offers to hold Nora while we wait, Nora says no. They take my blood pressure and tell me the doctor will be right in. I pull my phone out to call my mother-in-law. She answers, “Hi Kenlee! How’s it going?” I muster up the strength to say, “I need you to come get Nora. I’m at the instacare. Somethings wrong and I’m getting it looked at.” She says, “On my way,” and hangs up. The doctor knocks twice and walks through the door. “How’s it going in here? Ok, tell me what’s going on.” He asks me a series of questions about my bowel movements, if I’m on my period, and if any physical injury has taken place. Everything is normal and nothing is weird. He asks me to lay back. I slowly lay onto the paper covered table. The sound of each crackle makes me wince. The doctor lifts up my shirt and gently pushes on the side that is sore and asks me to rate the pain. I all but scream. After what feels like forever, he tells me they don’t have the equipment to do a proper examination and that I need to go to the emergency room. In my head I think, not a chance. I say ok, thank you. And I grab my stuff and head to my car. I call my mother-in-law back and told her to meet me at my house. Just after we pull into the driveway, she pulls in behind me. She comes over to me and takes Nora from my hands. She grabs the diaper bag from the backseat and asks me if I am ok. I tell her what happened and she said she would call me in a while and check in. I kiss Nora goodbye and head inside. I slowly go down the stairs to my room and lay on the bed and cry. A few minutes later, Payton comes in. I tell him what happened and he asks if I’m sure I don’t need to go to the ER. I say, yes. I call my midwife and ask her if she has any openings. It’s Friday at 1:30pm, she says no. She said that another provider can see me if I can be there in 10 minutes. We quickly get into the car and head over. Once we get to the office, we check in. They take me back within seconds. Not because they think it’s an emergency, I’m the last patient of the day– they are ready to go home. This doctor was a woman I had never met before. She introduces herself and asks what the problem is. My first impression was that she was not a super nice lady. She asks me to undress from the waist down so that she could do an ultrasound. She dims the lights and shoves the giant wand up me. She explains that she wants to check my IUD and make sure it is in the right place. I wince and cry with each movement she makes with the wand. She tells me that it’s in the right place and isn’t the issue. She pulls the wand out. She says, “Let’s take it out and let your body relax. It could just be an irritation from the IUD causing all of the pain.” I say ok and she goes to take it out. Instead of it being a hard long process of removing it, she sticks her finger in half an inch and it falls right out. She was shocked. “Must have slipped,” she said. Nora was a bit of a surprise to us, so I asked if I could get the Depo shot for the time being, just in case. She looked at me and sighed, yes. “We need to do a pregnancy test before we do that. Please hurry and pee in this cup while I get the shot ready.” I do. About 10 minutes later, she comes back empty handed. Payton looks at me confused. She sits down. “So, you are pregnant.” My stomach drops to the floor. “How is that possible? I was on birth control?” She looks at me a little less annoyed than she did before, “It’s not super common on IUDs but it happens. With the amount of pain you are in and where the IUD was sitting, I think that this is an ectopic pregnancy. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do about this pregnancy. I would like you to go to get an ultrasound so we can see what the next steps are. You need to hurry up there, because they close at 4:30.” The doctor leaves the room so I can get dressed. Payton looks at me, “It’s going to be ok. We will figure it out.” “This is going to be so expensive” I say. He holds my hand and says “let’s not worry about that right now.” He tells me he’s going to go get the car since imaging is on the other side of the hospital. We get to the imaging department and get checked in. We wait almost 40 minutes to get in. The ultrasound tech is less than happy to be there. She has me lay down on the table in the dark room. She uses the wand to push and pull and move. I cry and cry. Her response, “hold still.” How can someone have such little empathy? After a few minutes she stops and makes a phone call. She calls the doctor with the results. She then hands me the phone. “Hello?” She explains to me that the size of the baby is too big to do anything but surgery. She says that my fallopian tube may burst soon so we need to act fast. I tell her ok. She says to head to the emergency room right away. I will be prepped for an emergency surgery. I look over to see Payton crying, a rare occurrence. Maybe it was the employee at Dutch Bros who jinxed me. I will have to tell her next week when I go. I left my coffee in the car all day, I need another one. ​ ​ ​ ​ An Albatross Tears roll down my cheeks Following the path they have spent years creating The feelings that bubbled over and couldn’t be stopped The sun shines through my window onto my skin The warm yellow rays sprawled across my walls Yet I still feel cold I look over at the seven-pound girl who is squirming in her bed She’s hungry and wants me But I don’t want to move My chest aches with milk that needs to be released The happiest day of my life And all I can do is cry I reach for her and pull her close She snuggles right into my chest and falls asleep The tears roll down my face ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ The Mommies on the Bus I buckle Nora for the long drive back home. An hour shouldn’t be a long time, but with a two-year-old, it is. She needs me to take off her shoes but as soon as I do she wants them back on. I merge onto the freeway right as she drops her fruit snacks. “Nak” “Nak” “Nak” she says getting more and more aggressive with it. I tell her I can’t help her because “mom is driving.” She continues to tell me over and over again. I want to reach back and pull the fruit snacks out of the wedged corner of the car and throw them out the window so she will stop saying that word. I feel like a bad mom. I just want to drive home in silence. I just want to wallow in self-pity over the day that I have had. But instead, I sing “Wheels on the Bus” 10 times. Nothing really terrible happened to me today but a lot of little things did. I forgot to start the dryer so all of my clothes smell stale in the morning. I don’t have any clean bras. Now I have to wear the one that makes me look like a hooker. I didn’t start the dishwasher so now the kitchen smells funny and I don’t have any sippy cups to take in the car. I have a long day ahead of me but it just seems to get longer every minute that goes by. Tears roll down my cheeks as I motion the signs to The doors on the bus go open and shut. I don’t want to be a mom today. I don’t want to be a person that has any responsibility to anyone else besides myself. I don’t want to make sure that there are enough diapers in the bag before I drop her off at daycare. I don’t want to make note of how many times a day she has pooped to make sure she's not constipated. I don’t want to plan dinners that she can/will eat at night. I just want to eat buttered noodles in my bed while I binge watch “The Office” for the 10th time. I want to wake up and get myself ready and leave. I don’t want to plan what time I need to wake her up before I need to leave for work to get myself and her ready. Do you know how hard it is to mourn the life you had when you have to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider?” I look pathetic. Normal people can cry and be sad however they see fit. Not me. I cry but also help change the diaper of her babydoll who is way too small for the diaper. I cry while we color chalk on the sidewalk. I cry in silence while I sit next to her crib and hold her hand while she falls asleep. I hear my voice in my head say, “You chose to be a mom, you don’t get to cry about it now.” Other people can be sad about the choices they made, so why can’t I? I feel crushed by the expectation of the mother I need to be. Don’t let her play with any toys that have BPA. Make sure you brush her teeth with fluoride. Don’t let her eat too much sugar. Don’t let her watch too much TV. Every day I see a post about how terrible the moms are who drop the kids at daycare while they work. I see them as I’m taking my lunch break and scroll Instagram in the faculty room. Sometimes I go the entire day without looking in the mirror to realize the shirt that I threw on in the middle of the night, to soothe the screams in the room next to mine, is backwards and inside out. No one told me how hard it is to be a mom. Because when you are a mom, you don’t get to be a person. You are only a mom. Your shirt is the tissue for tears and boogers. Your arms are the seat of the toddler who doesn’t want to walk. Your phone is the portal to Ms. Rachel in the grocery store to keep the peace as you walk down the aisles. Your money is used to buy diapers that are too expensive and shoes that will only last a few weeks. Your make-up brush is used on the kitchen floor while you aren’t paying attention. Your toothbrush scrubs the inside of a never-ending snotty nose. I wished someone would have told me it’s ok to be a mom and some days not want to be a mom. I wish society would remember that moms are people too. I wish I could scream that to the lady in the seat next to me on the airplane that looked me dead in the eye and said, “That baby better not cry this flight, I need a nap.” Some people must believe that if you have any responsibility to a child you must stay home until they turn 18. What about me? What about my life? Don’t I get to live too? I wipe the tears from my eyes as I turn into the driveway of my home. No more time for tears tonight. I pull her out of her car seat and she puts her arms around my neck and says, “Nora happy!” I say, “Are you happy?” She squeals and says, “Yah!” I tell her I love her and she responds with, “La you” and blows me a kiss. We put her favorite princess nightgown on and brush her teeth. We read “Goodnight Moon” two times before she tells me “tired” and I lay her down and get her cozy in the blankets. She asks for “Birthday song” as she lays there looking up at me. I sing “Happy Birthday” three times until she closes her eyes. Who knew the candle-blowing song would be such a lullaby. I turn the night light on and leave the room. How can guilt, sadness and love all be felt within a matter of seconds? The grip of responsibility is tight around my neck. Choking me in silence as I clean up the toys scattered around my house. The words of every middle-aged woman floating through my brain, One day, you will miss this! Don’t take it for granted. What if I don’t. What if this is just hard and one day it won’t be. Maternal instinct must outweigh the guilt and angst of not feeling like a person because all I want now is another baby. ​ ​ I Miss You I miss the freedom of choosing me. I miss spending money on coffee and clothes I miss sleeping in whenever I wanted I miss my body, free from stretch marks and scars I miss my perky boobs that have fallen so low I miss my drive and passion for reading I miss my ability to watch movies without crying I miss the freedom to come and go as I please I miss the way I will miss you ​ Making a mess around every corner ​ Spitting up on my nice clean shirt ​ Rocking you back to sleep each night ​ Leaving handprints on the glass ​ Giggling when I blow bubbles toward you ​ The scent of you after a nice warm bath I miss me, but I miss you more ​ ​ Erica Jong Changed My Life Have you ever read a book that opened your eyes? That shifted your entire perspective on life and the person you are? My entire personality is based on feelings. How other people feel about me, how I feel about them. The way I make them feel, I am powerless to it. Fear of Flying by Erica Jong enlightened me. She said, “Women are their own worst enemies. And guilt is the main weapon of self-torture…Show me a woman who doesn’t feel guilty and I’ll show you a man….You don't have to beat a woman if you can make her feel guilty.” It was the biggest head tilting moment. All of my decisions are based on one feeling, Guilt. To be this deep of a people pleaser, is damaging. I can’t sleep if I feel I have offended or hurt someone. I rethink my choices years after I make them all on the idea that I could have done something differently. After reading this book, I felt like someone really understood me. She knows what I feel. The constant inner fight to feel what I want over what people make me feel. I felt a shift inside me. An urge to look inward to see where and how I am being beaten, by myself. No one can make me feel guilty, only I can do that. As I say that out loud, I feel the grip of a man's hand loosen from around my neck. Freedom. ​ ​ ​ ​ My Battle Call I woke up in tears and rolled over, you weren’t there Your side of the bed was cold, like you hadn’t been there all night I slide out of bed slowly with a pit in my stomach and burning in my chest Not ready for a full day of silence and tears I try to apologize for what I think I did wrong Somehow, that makes it worse I struggle to keep my composure, breaking down at even a look All I get is blank stares and sharp responses My heart is too soft for this kind of stuff I rethink all my life choices Is this the life I wanted? How did this happen? Why is he always so angry with me? Will we ever make it past this? I go to bed hoping that you will reach over and touch me Just so I know we will be ok Nothing. I try to reach for you after what feels like hours of solitude You aren’t there I peak out of the bedroom and see a disheveled couch I see you fast asleep in the cushions My heart breaks again as I return to my cold bed Holding my blanket and sobbing in silence Knowing I must comfort myself I woke up to a kiss on the cheek A nice, warm embrace from a sleep ridden body After holding hands all night, my hand is stiff We get out of bed and hang out in the kitchen with the smell of bacon surrounding us We plan our day and joke like we have been lifelong friends I feel so safe and so happy I slip into something more suited for the plans we have made throughout the day He compliments me and kisses me as I head out the door We text throughout the day, and I get excited to come home to see him I plan my day around spending time with him because that is what makes me happy We watch our favorite show and make treats together We make love and fall asleep in each other’s arms As I lay there feeling his body heavy with sleep, I pray this is the same day I have tomorrow​ But it almost never is Each day gets better And each day gets worse I used to think marriage was a beautiful thing that was full of happiness with the occasional argument I was wrong Marriage is a battle to remain on the same team It’s a fight to stay together To love or to leave is always on the table but never investigated With iron fists we push through the awkward and painful days in hope of a bright one to soon follow It could be days before we see eye to eye, and it could be weeks before our next fight Every day is a challenge to remain on the same side I never used to be a fighter But now I fight for my life Every day Which day will I get tomorrow? Please, God, let it be a good one. ​ Carnivore Love is like a tiny baby bird, It's beautiful and pure. Small but has so much potential. Everyone dreams about having this tiny baby bird. People write songs, stories and movies about it. Some people would even kill for this bird. But something that people don’t know about this baby bird, It stinks. It shits all over the place; On your ideas of what you should eat for dinner, On your ideas of what to dress up as for Halloween, And how you decorate for Christmas. It whines about going to see your parents for Sunday dinner, And it watches way too much college football. Some people only choose to see the cute photos you could take with that baby bird And how the baby bird will be your best friend. I think about the time the baby bird woke up our kid because it was yelling too loud at a video game. Shouldn’t there be a training manual on how to live with a baby bird? Why didn’t my mom or friends tell me about how angry this baby bird would make me? Maybe they were afraid that after they told me, I wouldn’t want a baby bird. It’s too late now. I guess I’ll learn to live with this smelly little bird. I’ll plan around those stupid can’t-miss football games. I’ll shush him when he’s getting too loud. I’ll scream in the car when he complains about dinner. I mean, I do love the little bird. Especially when he brings me flowers, Or when he tells me sorry for waking up our kid. Maybe having a baby bird isn’t quite so bad. Mostly. ​ ​ ​ Groundhog Day 6:40– alarm goes off I slowly stretch out of my comfy sheets Slip into my comfy but professional maternity clothes Pull my hair into a braid I move into her room Turn off the nightlight And wake the sleeping monster I put on her ‘big girl undies’ And get ready for daycare Kicks and shifts in my belly make me pee a little With arms full, we make our way to the car I stretch my arm back, she wants to hold hands Once I drop her off, my day begins ​ ​ ​ ​ I unlock the door and head in. ​ ​ ​ ​ Within minutes I hear a knock at the door ​ ​ ​ ​ A student who got into a fight ​ ​ ​ ​ I get them settled and take their phone ​ ​ ​ ​ The loud rebellion is always present in this conversation ​ ​ ​ ​ The frustrated grunts and curse words under their breath ​ ​ ​ ​ I am a glorified babysitter Whoever decided that in-school suspension was a good idea ​ ​ ​ ​ I’d like to punch them ​ ​ ​ ​ Fighting all day long for respect of prepubescent kids– exhausting I pick her up from daycare We make our way to the grocery store She whines and complains from the backseat Voicing her opinion about being in the car again Once we get home, my day starts again Clean up Dinner Dishes Bath time Bedtime Clean up Shower Go to bed I set my alarm To start all over again tomorrow Works Cited Ayachi, Janette. New Mother, Hand Over Mouth Music (Liverpool University Press, 2019) Gritters, Jenni. “This Is Your Brain on Motherhood.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 5 May 2020, www.nytimes.com/2020/05/05/parenting/mommy-brain-science.html. Jong, Erica. Fear of Flying. [Book club ed.]. New York, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1973. Lockman, Darcy. All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership. Harper Perennial. 2020 Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. Faber & Faber, 2005. Rich, Adrinne Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution W. W. Norton & Company; Norton Pbk. Ed edition 1995