I Used to Love Myself, But Now I Love My Son
I never wanted to be a mother when I grew up. I still don’t, even though my son is now almost three years old. There are times when I’m at my desk, completely lost in the labyrinth of my work, and I forget. That misplaced sense of freedom and control momentarily returns. Tweeting birds form the backdrop of the coffee machine buzz. Neighbors laugh in the distance as I click on my inbox, excited and relieved to communicate in silence. But then I receive a text message from my mother, Asleep. Did a poo, and I am beaten with two sticks—one hits me with massive disappointment, and the other with profound love.
I’m dressed in a long loose black dress, sandals, and a red and gold plaited necklace I’ve never worn, ready for a night out for the first time since my son’s birth. Thunder cracks after a day of sweaty stillness. The night sky lights up in a single flash, rain pelts down in thick heavy globs, and the wind thrashes our yuccas against the barriers of our sixth-floor balcony. My friend’s band, Sillyboy’s Ghost Relatives, are supposed to start playing in twenty minutes.
“Fucking fantastic,” I say to my partner, Alex, and flop onto the couch. “Another night off with Netflix. I can’t even read. My glasses aren’t ready until Monday.”
He’s just out of the shower, and drops his towel to the floor.
“Or …?” he says with a smirk. My instinct is to roll my eyes, but somehow, I laugh. I’m reminded of when we started dating, of the nervous lust I’d try to tame.
“And mojitos?” I say, as he bends over for a kiss.
“Or we can make a run for it if the storm becomes a little less violent,” he says. I agree. Everyone’s always late in Greece anyway. Even my son was overdue.
Once upon a time, we wouldn’t have thought twice about going out in a storm. We would have happily walked to the gig in the rain, stood in the crowd drenched head to toe, and got drunk on beer and love. I wouldn’t have cared if I woke up with a cold, or wet, or hungover. I loved my life as a free career-driven independent woman who didn’t need to think of anyone but herself. But now, I just love my son.
I don’t know if I will ever get used to not being a priority. I don’t know if I’ll ever love my life again since I have been completely stripped of my old identity: singer, writer, graphic designer, let-the-dishes-build-up-till-there-are-none-left kinda gal. I have even lost the ability to wake up in the morning with a smile on my face without it being triggered by something cute my son does.
This loss of identity hit me when he was just one month old. I’d not had more than a couple hours sleep in a row since he was born. My mother would spend endless time at our house doing dishes, laundry, everything possible for me to get some sleep between round-the-clock breastfeeding. I thought I was strong enough to keep up the momentum. But I was wrong.
This is when I reached my breaking point. The exhaustion was so bad I thought someone had drugged me. My son screamed—wailed—for the tenth time that day; he’d not slept for more than one hour at a time. The world spun, my knees buckled, and I simply…let go. My body dropped to the floor and I imagined watching blood pool around me from above. Alex and my mother helped me to bed, where pillows had been positioned in such a way for me to feed and sleep at the same time.
“Lie down, close your eyes,” Mum whispered.
“What about—” My son was still screaming blue murder from his bassinette.
“I’ve got him, just sleep.”
I had no idea what she meant. I had no idea how she was planning to feed a screaming baby who was allergic to formula and cow’s milk without my breast. My consciousness was wavering in and out, so I gave it up to fate.
When I awoke three hours later, my son was lying on his stomach, on my chest. Breathing peacefully. I smiled and kissed the top of his head. Then cried tears of relief and woe. I’d slept three hours. But there were at least another two months like this to look forward to.
I used to love my life, but now I love my son.
Before becoming a mother, I could happily go a full month or more without physically speaking to anyone. I would do my design work, write music, read, cook, eat, shit, sleep, all in the silent bliss of living alone. Now, a few moments of peace are stolen on the toilet, or in the shower. There is constant noise in my home: my son playing, narrating every move he and his toys and his imaginary creatures make; my partner on back-to-back business calls as he paces round and round the sofa expressing his marketing know-how in passionate Greek; the stove fan roaring as it sucks remnants of peace into the hustle of Athens traffic; the ‘silent’ washing machine pounding on the uneven laminate as it acquires my son’s monster status more and more with each cycle; the tame hum of the dishwasher that whispers all the things I don’t want to hear; and the voice in my own head that plays on repeat: YOU WILL BE OKAY.
By 10:30 pm, the storm calms to a mere drizzle. It’s the time the band is supposed to start playing. “Fuck it, let’s go,” I say, snatching my black bag and umbrella from the kitchen table. I’m determined not to stay in. I’m determined to feel free again. To feel alive. Please, universe, can I be something other than a human cow to a very cute human calf for just one night? Get me out of this farm house!
If it wasn’t for my son, I would probably run and hide from it all, like I used to do when I was a younger, more fragile delinquent. I think about my great escape often. The thoughts become more dramatic when I’m menstruating: quite the Greek tragedy—bloody. I once dreamed my son turned into a giant centaur, slit my throat and swallowed me whole. But you know what the real tragedy here is? Despite my son being the reason I would never run, he is also the reason my life is in a state I want to run from.
As I write these words, I feel shame. I am an atheist and I have sinned. How could I say such a thing? I think about my son reading this essay, ten years from now, on the cusp of puberty, and running to his room and never speaking to me again. The thought of hurting him, disappointing him, becoming a copy of my own mother bringing up an only child, brings me to tears. Day in and day out I try to understand the equal need to hug and caress him, to never let go, versus desperately needing to send him to my mother’s house so I can get some peace and quiet. Similarly, when I do get the opportunity to have a night off, the excitement is vandalized the moment he is out of my sight. I even cry after I’ve dropped him off, despite him only being a five-minute walk away from home.
We thought there’d be a lot of traffic, but the universe is finally on our side. We glide along wet, empty roads and reach the venue in less than fifteen minutes. We even find a park directly outside Six D. O. G. S. in the busiest, most congested part of Athens, on a road that feels like half the width of our tiny silver Ford KA.
“Ella, quick,” I say to Alex as he fiddles with something in the glove box. I catch sight of the Baby on Board sticker that I’d illustrated myself when I was eight months pregnant. A cross-legged baby in a nappy and headphones. He’s poking his tongue out and is sporting a standard rock ‘n’ roll salute. I just knew he would be a performer. The thought of my son instantly takes me back to the feeling of cradling him in my arms and I wonder, really, why do I continue to crave time apart?
I love my son, more than I love myself.
What is that? Am I destined to spend the rest of my life unable to understand or control my feelings? Before my son, I had reached an enlightening sense of freedom and peace with myself and the world after almost thirty years of depression and self-sabotage. I had arrived at a point in my life where I was able to choose happiness, understand how to choose happiness, and understand that not all happy moments are created equal. I had accepted the fact that disappointments in life all boil down to my own expectations of others. I had even embraced the idea that I was the only one in control of all my good and bad choices, if ‘bad’ choices are even a thing. But now, what are choices? What I have now are options. Every day I am faced with options that are neither perfect nor dire. They are domestic and they are fine and I can do them and I don’t cry.
My son has green eyes like me. His first phrase was “half a moon,” and at just under two years old he told me that the banging coming from the renovations downstairs was “the heartbeat of the building.” He also likes to tell me to get off my “fucking desk.” At nearly three he’s already speaking English like a pro, as well as a little Greek and German. He walks like a bricklayer and has long blond Viking hair down to his waist that he often wears in a top knot and a plait at the back. What else? Oh, he “loves” water and almonds “also too.” And bananas are “yeyow.” He has a fetish for antique cars and knows all their names. Dinosaurs too. He draws wheels with bolts and angry suns any chance he can get…oh, I’d better stop now. Can you tell I’m proud? I’m writing this and I’m grinning ear to ear.
My partner and I enter Six D. O. G. S. and the band is still setting up. Oh universe, you are being so kind today. We grab a couple of beers and position ourselves in front of the stage. We’re probably the oldest and chubbiest and geekiest couple in the crowd, but I’ve given up caring about how I look. The band starts to play, and the smooth slow funky bass line loosens my limbs. The beer is beginning to empty my head when I sink into Alex’s embrace. He kisses my neck as we move in unison to the music. I am home.
I may almost love myself again. But I still love my son more.
I wake from aching breasts, slide out of bed, and shuffle with eyes half-closed to the breast pump I’d set up on the table the night before. I fumble with the tubes, attach them to the bottles and then to my nipples. The pumping sound resembles the hiss and hum of a life support machine, and it sends me into a trance. I lean my chest onto the edge of the table to hold the bottles in place as I rub sleep from my eyes. My fingers are black from eye makeup. I imagine the view in the mirror and chuckle to myself. I can’t believe I actually went out and drank beer, danced, played pool and got to sleep in. I dreamed of getting back on that stage. I felt something. I really did. It was motivation.
When my son comes home, I’m not going to forget this feeling…
But I do. Again and again. I wake, I work, I nurture.
It’s almost bedtime and we’re sitting on the sofa reading Fox in Socks. His smooth velvety skin against my forty-year-old flab is a comfort. The warmth from his body oozes through my torso and forms another organ. The smell of his freshly washed hair and strawberry breath is my aromatherapy. As I turn the last page, he looks up at me and hooks his arm around my neck. “Mummy,” he says with a little sigh, “I want boobie.” We put the book back in the shelf, say goodnight to Daddy, and lie in bed together. He suckles on my breast and I sing ‘Summertime.’ I stroke his hair out of his face and pull the covers up over his chest as he drifts to sleep. The quiet murmur of his slumber in the moonlit room calms me. I lie there, staring at his peaceful little face, and half-smile, resisting the urge to kiss all visible flesh. He is my everything.
To love my son is what I need to love myself again.
My new self.
About the Author
Jessica Bell is a multi-award-winning author/poet and singer-songwriter who was born in Melbourne, Australia.
In addition to having published a memoir, five novels, three poetry collections, and her bestselling Writing in a Nutshell series, she has been featured in a variety of publications and radio shows such as Writer’s Digest, Publisher’s Weekly, The Guardian, Life Matters, and Poetica.
She is also the Publisher of Vine Leaves Press, and a highly sought-after book cover designer. She currently resides in Athens, Greece, with her partner and son, and a pile of dishes that still don’t know how to wash themselves despite her consistently teaching by example.
For more information visit: iamjessicabell.com
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