Sublime

One of the staples of being the mom of a little kid has been that at least

My days look and taste a lot like nothing, and yet they are there.

A mother’s heroic journey is not about how she leaves, but about how she stays.

years, what mothers do is seen as so unremarkable it’s not just an unimportant story, but not even a story at all.

once a day, for me, there is some standard annoying little incident (nothing out of the ordinary, but when you have a child the ordinary has a way of feeling both insane and banal at the same time) that makes me fantasize about leaving the tube, the shoebox, my family, the whole thing. I mean, obvs, I would never actually leave—I’m just saying the

Just surviving is the success. So much of who I was - my daily habits, my identifying clothing - had to get thrown away in making room to become a mother.

In trying to process it, I wonder why I’ve felt such inner resistance to accepting that anything I do as a mother might actually be a page in a book. And really, it doesn’t take long to connect that feeling to the fact that in popular culture, at least in America for the past forever

there. And what I’ve learned, now that I’m finally saying fuck it and taking a Xanax to just calm down and suck it up and write this book: there’s a reason motherhood as a story is so infrequently told.