it’s embarrassing, really…

by shadymama

sometimes i marvel at my total inability to be a real live adult.  it boggles the mind, leaves me squinting at my sloppy reflection, shaking my head and wondering

how did i even get here?

here as in my actual life, right now, as it exists, in all of its small and infinite bounce.  i peer into it, this life, like it is something on the other side of a locked door; a locked door with a fairly large keyhole, good for peering, but unpickable and,

yes.  i am completely without a key. 

who is this woman, with this insane job and this growing child and this funky lover and this rented house and this daily life, this woman who is so much more gorgeous and so much more mundane than she ever thought she could be?  who is she?  where did she come from?

{and someone barely whispers where did i go?}

what can i say?  it is like a car accident or a freefall, this alla sudden reality of mamahood.  a freefall without a parachute.  and you are asleep as you plummet.  think bodies in motion slamming into things motionless.  think you blink and by the time yer eyes snap back open it is so…unrecognizable.

and it stays that way.

it stays that way.  and that’s the ultimate rub, the most surprising piece of this mangled and sleepless reality – it has been over two years since this child was born, just coming up to three years since i learned of his existence, and still, still, i spend a large amount of my time in a meandering state of shock and awe, of utter and inescapable that, this child?  and this life that came with him? 

completely mine.

i remember, when i was pregnant and scrawling pages and pages and pages, daily, in my notebook.  one of the themes i just.could.not leave alone was this idea that i would wake up, one day, flat bellied and dazed, grogged out and maybe hungover; pad down the hall to my best friend’s room and say something like: “dude.  i just had the.craziest.dream.  i was pregnant (i know) and still living in Dgo, in this tiny shithole apartment with that dude we used to work with at fah-q’s – you remember?  that hippie guy i crushed on, the one with the pretty eyes?  effing crazy, man…wanna smoke a joint?”  and it would be such this total.blip on the radar of my life, just one of those weird and slightly memorable dreams that, in the course of an existence?

means absolutely not.a.thing.

i would dream of having this dream (and you mamas know how tangible and the pregnant dream life is), i would awaken and wonder if i was still dreaming of my dream or if it was only a dream that i was waking up out of…it was all very m.c. escher, all very “spiraling down the rabbit hole”. i look back, now, at just how Wholly Foreign life was to me in that time of the blooming belly, that time of tender breasts and stretching skin, of life coming into being inside of me,

and i sigh. 

and wonder.  life feels less like a foreign film without subtitles, these days.  less like a waking dream or a dream of being awake.  but it is still slightly unfamiliar, still tipped on its moorings and slightly rippled. it is still

 effing crazy, man.