je murmure les strophes d’un texte
à l’écho du machin-bruit dans ta chambre.
tenter de préparer notre transition
en la narrant au rythme de tes siestes.
je te vois courir à pleines jambes
explorer à cœur joie
couvert de boue de la tête aux pieds
devenir enfant du vent, des prés
et en urbaine, moi
j’ai du mal à m’imaginer
élever des enfants
de campagnes, de fermes
des êtres qui seront toujours
plus à l’aise, plus chez eux
plus natifs d’la place
on the town
out past :
rediscovering that people don’t all live indoors after seven pm
quietly whispering reading playing dice games
video art splendour
art as stage.
i’ve been thinking a fair amount about weight lately. unwillingly and grudgingly.
a year ago, my body was bursting with child. belly forward, with breasts, thighs and hips widdened, my body felt very ‘out there’, very on display. like an uncomfortable return to locker room adolescence, i was exponentially more aware of my body than i had been in years.
a year later, i’m thinner than i was was pre-conception, in part because my metabolism hasn’t slowed, because i’m breastfeeding (and i wager kiddo’s annexing all my fat), and because i’ve only just gotten back on my bicycle (as i hesitated to take an infant cycling) and my girth of muscle has vanished.
this isn’t a problem per se. it’s frustrating because my clothes don’t fit right and i’m too frugal to really do anything about it in the short term. but i know this’ll pass as my bike grows my body again. what sucks is that so many people bring it up.
after reading this post about how to talk about bodies to our daughters and hearing sook-yin lee’s show about body acceptance, it occured to me that we do indeed comment on other people’s bodies too much. and there is a double standard with skinny bodies. if i had gained weight after having my child, i doubt people would comment (to my face). it wouldn’t be the bulk of our conversation. i wouldn’t have to talk about what i’m doing to solve the problem and assure whoever it is that i eat almost as much as my farmer partner. i wouldn’t have to time and again look down and ascertain that i in fact have become an awkward stringbean.
in my first year of university, a women’s studies prof told the class, ‘if women spent half the time they spend thinking and working on their bodies thinking and working for gender equality, this world would be infinitely more just.’* this has stayed with me. and i make a conscious effort not to fret about my appearance (especially now with kiddo in tow). it makes it all the more frustrating when everyone brings it up. because you just can’t backburner issues that folks keep putting back on the table.
*she, of course, acknowledged the multiple industries whose raison d’être it is to make sure that this never happened.
suis-je la seule pas si nouvelle maman, qui, au moins quotidiennement, en prenant mon bébé dans mes bras, devient toute bouleversée d’amour, attendrie et incrédule que ce petit être est bel et bien mon fils, vient de moi, va faire partie de mon histoire jusqu’au bout?
ces photo-illustrations, tirés du livre "c’est le contraire!" :
conclusion : j’veux écrire un livre pour enfant.
(et j’vais commencer à lire les livres cartonnés avant de les emprunter à la bibliothèque)
un livre de contraires, j’veux bien, mais le contraire de ‘fille’, c’est pas ‘garçon’.. tout comme le contraire de poupée c’est pas camion de pompiers.. le pire : publié en 2013.
ça prendrait pas grand chose pour rédiger un cartonné révolutionnaire à ce rythme-là.
the child has taken to shrieking when i leave the room.
not the usual, happy and somewhat adorable "remember, i’m here!" shriek. more like a "i’m getting eaten by bears!" shriek.
it is piercing. and rips my heart a bit every time. as though he truly feels that i won’t return.
these have been sleepless nights. breakless days.
kiddo finally tired enough, after stories and nursing, rocking and singing, to doze off.
a friend came by unexpectedly. we sat on the stoop for a bit, chatting, before he biked off for home.
in these moments too much of my energy is drained by trying not to sound manic, by trying to keep my body from betraying itself and showing too much of the raw intensity of these days.
i come back inside, only to realize that no, you can’t hear cries from the bedroom sitting out on the stoop, because the babe had been crying. (after some 30 minutes of ‘nap’)
motherhood : to do so much, give so much care, but to forever feel that it maybe isn’t enough. that you’re still failing in some way.
kiddo’s tear-stained face.
that moment when the figurative glue you mustered to keep it together gives.
and me mourning the abrupt end of my few minutes alone today.
and to be angry.
at my beautiful boy for a split second before realizing, hey, the babe’s doing what he needs to do.
at my buddy for popping by. (but i’ll be the first to bemoan the fact that folks in this city don’t just stop by. they make plans weeks in advance, with schedulers. so that’s lame)
and at myself for not being very good with boundaries and naming my own needs.
(and for giving in/buying in to this mama-guilt too often.)