Allison Carr Mutha Magazine -

There is a specific grief in that realization. Not a tragedy, but a low-grade mourning for the woman you used to be—the one who could read a novel for three hours on a Sunday, the one whose body belonged only to her, the one who didn’t know the precise texture of vomit at 2:00 AM versus 4:00 AM. We don’t talk about that grief enough. We talk about postpartum depression and anxiety (thank god, finally), but we don’t talk about the mundane melancholy of missing your old self while simultaneously holding the new self you would die for.

“No, baby,” I said. “Not sad. Just… Tuesday.” allison carr mutha magazine

Before I had my daughter, I thought motherhood was a filter. I thought you applied it to your life and suddenly everything was softer, warmer, saturated with purpose. I would watch other women push strollers and think they were living inside a lifestyle blog. I didn’t see the crusted Cheerio stuck to the jogger’s wheel. I didn’t see the dark circles under the sunglasses. There is a specific grief in that realization

I looked at the blurry Tuesday photo one more time. She was right. It wasn’t sad. It was just the truest thing I’ve ever taken. A smudge on the lens. A whole world inside it. We talk about postpartum depression and anxiety (thank

So here is my prayer for us, the Muthas : May we stop trying to polish the lens. May we stop comparing our blooper reels to other people’s highlight reels. May we see the blur for what it is—motion, chaos, love, the frantic beautiful mess of raising humans while still trying to be one ourselves.

My daughter eventually handed me back the phone. She had moved on to the next photo: a crisp, perfect shot of our dog sleeping. She smiled, said “Puppy,” and ran off to destroy the living room.