It is what it is

Writing while mothering is a series of stopping and starting.

I'm not working on my book again.¹ It feels like a constant refrain these days.

I'm not working on my book, I'm not working on my book, I'm not working on my book.

It’s one I can’t escape—even though I keep trying. And it is a constant refrain. And it also isn’t. I keep starting working and stopping. Stopping and starting. Over and over and over again. And endless, painfully unavoidable cycle.

It’s the not working on the book that I focus on—obsess about really. So, when I’m not working on my book, I'm thinking about my book. I'm stressing about my book. I'm dreaming about my book. (I’m having nightmares about my book.) All of this gets to me. It scratches at me, demanding my attention and never giving me a moment’s peace.

There are many reasons for the not working. I could name them all. But, I won’t. I will name a few. There are other deadlines for other pressing things that must be done. The deadlines keep piling up, and I am barely keeping up with them. And I also can't seem to get well. Once I'm over one bout of illness, I'm hit by another and then another. My body has hit its limit after the stress of the last few years, it seems.

But the one that I can't quit thinking about is the main reason. It is also the most ironic. It’s motherhood. It’s mothering.

Mothering is keeping me from working on my book on motherhood. It's funny. And it's not. Or maybe, it’s frustratingly maddening. Or maybe, it’s pure frustrating. Or maybe, it just is.

It is what it is, people say. And I hate when they say it. I always think this phrase implies some sort of fatalism. It seems to suggest that things can't be changed. It is what is, they say, and then, they shrug as if that is all that can be done. It is what it is, they say, and then, they move on.

But lately, I find myself saying, it is what it is, to myself in the quiet moments and in the noisy ones, to remind myself that sometimes things just are what they are. What you see, sometimes, is really what you get. Yes, things can change. But sometimes, sometimes, we just live with them as they are—not as we wish they were or want them to be. We have to live in these moments. It is what it is is not the shrug I thought it was. It's an acknowledgement of where we are. It is not a dismissal of where we could be or where we want to be. It just is.

And motherhood is where I am. It's where I live. Day in and day out. It is what it is.

But, I am not always sure what the it is because motherhood is the water that I swim in. I'm enveloped by it—surrounded on all sides. I try to just keep swimming. Sometimes, I try to just tread water. Sometimes, I try not to drown. That might sound melodramatic, but it isn't. Motherhood is the water, and the water isn't always safe. It can be a warm bath at the end of the day or a cold shower that wakes you up. It can be a placid lake. It can be waves crashing on the beach. It can be a riptide dragging you away from the shore. It can be all of these in the span of a day, an hour, or even minutes. I know. I live in the waters of motherhood. I know how quickly they can turn. It is what it is.

What it is, for me at least, is all-encompassing. Motherhood doesn't have to be that way, and likely isn't for all moms. But motherhood feels that way for me. I'm a stay-at-home mom, who's also a writer. A writer who's also a mom. Both inform the other. Both compete too. I can’t separate the two from each other. They reside within me, sometimes uneasily. And the truth is motherhood often trumps writing.

And that's what has happened lately. Mothering keeps keeping me from writing. It has happened before. It will happen again of that I have no doubt. Kids get sick. Kids have events that I need to attend: band recitals, soccer games, performances, awards days, etc. Kids have appointments. Kids have homework. Kids need a listening ear. Kids have crises, big and small. Kids need me ways that I expect and in new and different ways that I don't. Luckily, I have a partner that shares the load. I am grateful for that every day. But, but, I am still the primary parent. I'm still the mom.

More than that, I want to be there for my kids. I want to listen. I want to attend their events. I want to help them navigate what life throws at them. I want to tend to them when they are sick. I want to be present in their lives. Yes, I’m still the mom, but I want to be their mom too.

So, I keep starting and stopping this book on motherhood to be a mother because I am one. I can't separate who I am from what I need to do nor would I want to. My experiences as a mom, hopefully, will make my book into something a little more special, a little more personal, and a little more engaging than it might be otherwise.

But I have to be able to write it too. And that's the struggle. Finding that balance. Scratch that. There's no such thing as balance. Finding a way forward to mother and write that allows me to do both without sacrificing one or the other, which some days feels impossible. I have to shift between the two, always prioritizing and reprioritizing. But I've done it before with other books and mothering. I'll do it again, even if right now it doesn't feel like it. 

It is what it is. But that isn't what it will be. Or what it has to be either. But, it is what it is right now.

1. I originally wrote a draft of this essay on my phone as an email to myself while my children played on their electronic devices. I don’t remember what day. It’s summer break, and they are both home, except when my youngest is at camp three days a week—every other week.

I stopped working on it because I promised them time in the pool, so we played in the pool. I picked it up again after the pool but couldn’t focus and put it down again. I started the essay again on a Saturday morning after breakfast while they played on devices—again—before we took a family walk in the park. It is good to have sunshine on our eyeballs and enjoy the Florida summer before the heat gets unbearable.

I finished a draft of this essay on a Saturday afternoon after the walk while one kiddo napped and other was doing who knows what, but it was quiet, oh-so-quiet, and I could think and write and be. But, I put it down again. To do something else.

I tried to pick it back up on a Sunday, but my brain was someplace else—anywhere but on writing—anxiously swirling about an upcoming appointment.

On a Monday, I had to drive over six and a half hours round trip to take a kid to a medical appointment. So by a Tuesday, my brain was fried, and writing was something I didn’t even want to consider. I didn’t even wanna think about the deadlines piling up, but I couldn’t help but think about them either. And yet, I couldn’t write even if I wanted to.

On a Wednesday, I had errands and a podcast to record and children who couldn’t be on devices all damn day. So again, no writing, even though I planned on it. Instead, we went to the park despite the increasingly dark clouds and walked around the lake. The ducks fussed at us because we brought nothing to feed them. And we swung on the swings as they creaked and clanked. We got rained out and had cherry limeades and lemonades as consolation prizes.

It was a Thursday before I got another moment to read what I had written and revise another time. I snuck into my office after more pool time, skipping a shower with my skin still sticky with sunscreen, to finally finish this essay. So, I did.