Humbly Admitted

"Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos" - Mary Shelly

I am late to my mid-life crisis. In my defense, I’ve been very busy. 

Children make you late for everything.

My therapist asked me to make a list of all the things I once enjoyed, and were lost over time due to the responsibilities of motherhood. I had two weeks to compile that list. 

I did not do it.

I found myself lost in the timeline of  The Losing of the Things. 

Where would I begin?

Do I begin with the first turn of my stomach at the smell of a favorite food?

Or the clothes I could no longer wear? 

The near comatose sleep at 8 pm followed by the 1 am wakefulness with subsequent tossing and turning for the rest of the night?

The small tears in the skin as it stretches, and the bruises on the ribs as he turns to make himself comfortable? 

The permanent dent in my forearm from years of carrying car seats?

Or does she mean hot meals and hobbies? Going to the movies and finishing books?

Or am I to recall just the smaller things that were lost? The insignificant? So insignificant they barely warrant an essay,

The bigger things are more complicated. They could fill a book.

But how would I list them without sounding resentful? 

“What you’ve lost” implies a desire to find them again. It implies someone took them. 

And in this case, those someones would be babies. Kindergarteners. Elementary school children with IEPs. Teenagers whose private worlds are imploding. Young adults whose trash ex-boyfriend keeps showing up at places he knows she’s going to be to parade his new, much uglier, girlfriend in front of her. 

Maybe I should call them the things which were set aside. Like a closet door that needs some paint put on the back burner while you repair the roof. I will get to it eventually. 

How could I speak of the things that were set aside without sounding ungrateful for the joys I had while they were waiting?

But those things were a part of my identity and deserve to be found again. They should be united with the motherhood that made Herself queen. They are the stones in the crown. 

Ten minutes of uninterrupted reading, singing, or staring at the leaves on a tree, are the weight in carats. 

I resented her asking me to make this list. I will not blame motherhood. But maybe this was never about the things I’ve lost, but the pieces which must be forged together again. 

The roof is not in such terrible shape that I can’t also attend to the door. 

Maybe this therapist knows what she's doing.