I wrote this at 11:40 PM, and went to work six hours later. I am old and now am tired.

The way to do something is doing it.

I once had a journalism professor—a famous, bloated wound of a man who harvested cliches and sprinkled them like fresh grown wisdom—relish in telling his classes that the cure for writer's block was writing.

Duh doy.

And yet, like all the best advice, it's the simplicity that makes the task so daunting. We (and yes, I'm dragging the general public into this) believe that there's got to be some other secret, a magic key that only reveals itself to the recipient at some opportune moment. There's a magical combination of words, or a ritual performed under the right moon, or even just the fallback of knowing the right person to make things true.

Some of those have a kernel of truth. After all, I do firmly believe you have to toss spilled salt over you shoulder. Rituals have weight.

But results come from action.

Last year, I lost weight and got healthier by exercising. At least thirty minutes a day, five days a week. No shakes, no programs, and I didn't count calories (though I know that's worked for others). I just did it. No exceptions. Not even at full capacity every day. The action mattered.

This applies to everything, absolutely everything, we want from life. Take any of my artistic ambitions. I don't know why it's taken me almost thirty years, much of which was spent editing the work of other writers, to realize that writers are people who write. I won't suddenly have more time. I won't suddenly have better ideas. I have to write. I have to put in the work.

Source

The past six months, I've written when my students write. I've given myself dialogue challenges. I've created characters. I've written fantasy and mystery and dystopia. Most are trash. Some are...intriguing. A few characters have stuck with me, and always the ones I discovered as I freely wrote.

I'm writing. And I can see a future, a misty-edged vision of morning pages and filled notebooks. I just need to do the work.

The cure is writing.

The Various and Diverse Ways I Fail at Motherhood

Or: How I stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb that has been dropped on my life.

Author's Note

OK. I am publishing this blog post on March 3rd, 2019. It was written on August 12th, 2016, when my daughter was a week old. I never fully finished it—I remember going back to edit, and never being quite sure how to end. I also remember feeling nervous about the reaction it would get. I was new to this whole "mom" gig, and I didn't want to alienate/enrage any moms reading this entry. This felt particularly potent as I tried to edit the breastfeeding section, as it seems to be the most polarizing of mom topics I could touch. I have a lot of natural/earth mama type friends I didn't want to hurt. I respect their decisions. But those decisions are not mine.

This week, one of my favorite authors, Lucy Knisley, released a graphic novel chronicling her experience trying to conceive and going through pregnancy and childbirth. I love the way she writes, and I kept reading and feeling the urge to write about my experience. It felt like fate that I suddenly stumbled on this snippet, written when it was all fresh and raw. Here it is, in unfinished glory. I couldn't write this now. I'm glad I did then.

I'm about three weeks into this journey of being a mom, and I fear I have already irrevocably doomed my child. Since the very first moment, minute decisions were made that will doubtless reverberate throughout Alex's future, sadly forcing her into lifelong mediocrity, idiocy, and abandonment issues. My poor, poor child.

Alex, 8-12-16. Six days old.

Mistake #1: Prenatal Lack of Investment

I didn't read the baby books.

I had them. At one point, there were at least four on my nightstand. Oh, I read a chapter here and there, especially in the first 20 weeks. But listen. I was working. A lot. I had stuff to do. And I figure, once you know the basics—drink water, don't eat things that make you sick, don't do extreme sports—everything else is just anxiety-inducing gravy, right? The more you know, the more you worry, so why invite aggravation.

I also did not have a midwife or a doula. I relied on my ten-minute monthly doctors appointments, with a doctor who seemed to take a similar ideological stance of "the less you know, the better." She'd check the baby's heart, tell me that all my concerns were normal and not to worry, and then usher me out the door. There was no warm maternal presence performing holistic ceremonies over my bump (that's what doulas do, right? See, I told you I didn't read the books!). No one held my hand through each stage of the process, and I'm sure I had the completely wrong birthing experience because of it. Which brings us to...

Mistake #2: She Got the Epidural

Yep. I did not have a "natural" childbirth. I was drugged up, and boy was it awesome.

Before going any further, I have to tout Jessi Klein's magnificent piece in the New York Times: "Get the Epidural." Read and be enlightened.

Obviously, I had a pretty laissez-faire attitude towards the whole giving birth thing. I suppose I had a birth plan, but as I looked at examples online they mostly seemed overblown with minutiae (particularly this one, which had a ridiculous amount of options, most of which were things I'd never heard of before, let alone deliberated on enough to develop a strong, unshakable opinion). Again, my attitude was whatever had to happen for the baby and my comfort, bring it on!

Which resulted in me laboring at home for a good long while, arriving at the hospital and being pretty dang far along, far enough along that they basically told me it was time for whatever pain relief I wanted. By this point it was late at night, the thought of not feeling contractions and getting some sleep sounded extremely desirable, so bring on the epidural!

Right before giving birth, I actually turned to Taylor and asked, "why wouldn't you get an epidural?" It was blissful. Not perfect, particularly how it only partially took for the first few hours, but for that last hour of labor and those fifteen minutes of pushing, I was floating on a cloud. I was happy. I was jazzed to meet this kid. I felt NOTHING. Everything waist-down was spun sugar, cotton balls, ephemeral body parts I knew in theory were mine, but I couldn't produce solid evidence of that fact.

And all those reasons why epidurals are so evil—drugs making your baby sleepy, slowing down labor to a stop, somehow leading to a longer recovery process after labor—to that I say: phooey. I could not have had a more magical birth and recovery process if I had explicitly planned out the ideal situation. My doctors guided me through pushing like champions. My kid was lifting herself off my chest and looking around seconds after birth. And I was walking around that day, no sign of jelly legs or terminal numbness to be seen.

Yes, that's a brag, but it's a brag with intent. Thanks to drugs, I was able to not only appreciate the moment my child came into the world, but I was happy during it. At one point during pushing, we were joking and laughing. For me, I can't imagine anything more wonderful than a child born into a world full of joy.

Mistake #3: No Encounters with the Boob Kind (aka, A Lack of Breastfeeding)

I tried. I didn't try for the recommended two months,* but I did try, and when it worked I enjoyed it. The hubbub about the connection breastfeeding can foster is somewhat understandable, because it did feel a little mind-blowing that the body can provide nutrients, and that our spawn can theoretically survive based solely on those properties.

That novelty becomes markedly less appealing when your beautiful, placid, well-tempered child is wailing every time they are approached by a boob. It becomes particularly less appealing when you, who has managed to hold on to ration and logic throughout pregnancy, whose hormones were almost more in-check during the past nine months, suddenly loses reality.

The few days I spent trying to breastfeed were the most out of control I have felt in my entire life. I'd sit and stare at the ceiling, fighting waves of hopelessness and terror. Tears would run down my face and I wouldn't notice until after they'd left dried salt tracks. I felt more possessive of everything in the house, while desperately wanting to be left completely alone and untethered. These feelings abruptly dissipated once I gave in to formula feeding. Maybe it was just the result of taking away one of many overwhelming responsibilities that comes with new parenthood. Or (my working theory) maybe my chemicals aren't equipped to handle breastfeeding. Either way, my formula baby seems  happy and healthy, and thanks to not being solely responsible for feedings, I can be too.

Also, how ridiculous is the terminology built around the cult of breastfeeding? It's like this entirely different entity, phrases like "the breast" thrown around in this tone imbued with holiness, as if referring to a magical relic too sacred to be spoken of in normal language. No, it needs an other-ing, so that conversations about it can reach maximum pomposity. And quite frankly, the talk around it can sometimes get too pedestal-y** for my taste. Breastfeeding is super cool, and awesome, and one of numerous amazing things the body is capable of, but it's not magic.

*which, seriously?!? Two months? It can take two months for breastfeeding to catch on? Yeah yeah, benefits and all, but has anyone researched the downsides to a child essentially starving for the first two months of life? Because I'm pretty sure those repercussions are at least as influential as the alleged benefits of "the breast." 

** a phenomenon that always smacks of devious patriarchy to me. Any placing of female experience in a removed, otherworldly sphere (especially when it's taking a function and separating it from the person, which the phrase "the breast" SUPER does) feels like it undercuts our humanity. Breast is great! Formula is great! Either way, let's remember there's a very real woman behind whichever choice is made. And I don't think that woman needs your stupid platitudes to feel powerful.