Sometimes I forget I'm a mother. Scratch that: sometimes, after directing my focus toward something else, I resurface into the knowledge of my motherhood with bafflement. Not dissatisfaction, mind you, or resentment, or even the fashionable "ambivalence." It's more as if, while concentrating, my sense of myself returns to some ingrained set-point, a reality principle that got burned in long before parenthood was a fact of life or even a goal. (Hannah said recently she thinks my inmost self is about 15 years old, and she's probably not far off.) Coming back from that place, there's a faintly disturbing, out-of-focus moment when my mental picture of "me" and my mental picture of "a mother" float in separate bubbles that don't coincide, like the two circles of binocular vision before they resolve into one. I have children, but I'm not
Eat at Mama's
Eat at Mama's
Eat at Mama's
Sometimes I forget I'm a mother. Scratch that: sometimes, after directing my focus toward something else, I resurface into the knowledge of my motherhood with bafflement. Not dissatisfaction, mind you, or resentment, or even the fashionable "ambivalence." It's more as if, while concentrating, my sense of myself returns to some ingrained set-point, a reality principle that got burned in long before parenthood was a fact of life or even a goal. (Hannah said recently she thinks my inmost self is about 15 years old, and she's probably not far off.) Coming back from that place, there's a faintly disturbing, out-of-focus moment when my mental picture of "me" and my mental picture of "a mother" float in separate bubbles that don't coincide, like the two circles of binocular vision before they resolve into one. I have children, but I'm not