So today I was diagnosed with positional vertigo. We are hoping that the condition or at least the symptoms ( spinning room, disorientation, nausea) will subside in the next couple of days. This is one of the multiple freak illnesses that decide to visit me once a year. To say the least, it throws a spanner in the works when it happens. And when it happens over the weekend, it makes me more pissed than ill. Which makes me more ill. And further pissed. You see how this goes?
It’s funny to some how I place almost “corporate levels” of significance on weekend, being a stay at home mom and all. Well, the idea being that you can go anywhere and do anything when you are home all day. *cue manic deranged laughter from me* I wish I could show these people a video of stay at home moms doing the “stuff they do” all day everyday. Not only can you not go anywhere and not do anything without a detailed plan involving feeding, sleeping time constraints, packing a thousand things for the “just in case” scenario and hoping you wouldn’t be driven to tears in a crowded mall/ hospital/ restaurant, it is still entirely possible (and highly likely!) that the baby will succeed in pulling a fast one on you regardless. Add to this the charm of this job being one with too many bosses (everyone knows how to bathe/feed/put to nap/play with/soothe the baby better than you – the person who will actually DO it. But all things considered, what gets you in the end is that the business of keeping a baby alive, happy, active and safe is a lonely business. You are never alone but you are lonely, and it’s not the sullenness or peaceful quiet of sitting in a corner and reading something but that of never having a spare moment with your thoughts within a cacophony of happy toys, blaring music and baby babbles. It is the brutal aloneness which if ignored for a while, surfaces as the realisation that you may now be metamorphosing into a person of zero ambition and worse, zilch ability to think. If you wallow too much in it, the guilt of grudging your child the time you owe him/ her catches up soon enough.
Why wouldn’t parents share this more often, you ask? Because it’s our old resistance to appearing weak, I reckon. Everyone wants us to believe that it was a breeze for them. That they did it differently. That they managed it all. That they didn’t overthink it.
We deal with it by magnifying the good parts (and there are many) in our minds, our narrative, our social media. I don’t criticise it one bit. It’s a coping mechanism as good as any. Filtered motherhood, selective moments, choosing happiness. Call it whatever.
It goes on like this. We fall freely, hanging by the tiny moments of love and beauty that undeniably shine. We fall freely, desperately wanting the hard parts to fade a bit more so our happiness shines brighter. Spinning out of control, just out of reach, dancing to its own tune, life carries on. We wait for the vertigo to pass.