My marathon
NS April 17th, 2009
“I’m all touched out.”
I never knew what that phrase meant until I became a mother of two. “Touched out?” I thought; “What in the heck does that mean? How can you have a negative psychological reaction to merely being touched by your children, in mostly loving and gentle ways? Surely, even if you ARE feeling a little physically overextended by the kids, the feeling wouldn’t spill over to others.” Right?
Wrong.
Some days my body feels like a sacrificial lamb at the altar of motherhood: tugged, pressed against, pulled, pushed, pinched, hugged, rubbed, kissed, held, scratched, slapped, kneaded, spilled on, climbed up, trod on, rolled over and bulldozed. I’ve constantly got a baby either on my breast, on my hip or in my lap and a toddler demanding every ounce of strength and attention I have left. At the end of a particularly hard, draining day, I actually feel sore. Sore and deflated, my body mimicking the numbness of defeat in my spirit.
On days where I’ve been touched out, I can’t stand for the cat to come near me once the kids are asleep. I will share my lap and hand with no one. On days where I’ve been touched out, I can only look in the vague direction of my husband, afraid my sad, clouded eyes will catch a glint in his, my unfortunate response to run away in horror at the thought of an intimate embrace. On days when I’ve been touched out, I can’t even bear the weight of clothes on my skin or my hair on my neck. I have this desire to be weightless and bare and free.
I’ve had a shit day. My sorrow hangs heavy like smog on my chest as I uncork the wine and pour a glass of respite. I tuck my tired legs underneath me and wait solemnly and silently for dinner to materialize, trying to clear my mind of the day’s parenting horrors. The tantrums, the tears, the shouting, the anger…most of it from me. My logical and rational mind acknowledges that these days happen to the best of us but my heart thuds like a stone to the dull beat of failure. I am hard on myself, I know, but the physical remnants of the day haunt me, ever-present reminders of how fucking hard this gig is and how, more than anything, it has fundamentally changed the way I view myself, the way I view the world and how I process and feel things. It is a bittersweet pain that I will never be able to properly articulate and it starts at my tensed-up toes and ends at my watering eyes.
I suppose it you look at mothering like a marathon, a lot of the same rules apply — stretch before beginning, go slowly at first, set a pace, push yourself a little but know your limitations, rest when necessary, and cool down at the end. Now, I’m no runner but I’ve heard and read enough about the experience to draw parallels. A true runner talks about not knowing why they get up and do it every morning when every fiber of their being is screaming “Stay in bed, you fool!”
I’ve experienced that.
The dedicated marathon trainee talks about lacing up her trainers and setting out at dawn, despite the pain that will inevitably settle into her limbs; how after awhile that pain turns to a dull burn and then a rush of adrenaline and then a super-charged feeling of soaring and contentment, the rush she gets from achieving something that incorporates all the senses and only makes sense because it doesn’t make sense at all.
I get that now.
So in preparation for tomorrow’s run, I will drain my glass, have a few hours of bodily autonomy and then, when The Noble Baby wakes, the invasion will start anew. But this time, after an evening of reprieve and (hopefully) a few hours sleep, I will gaze down at my cherub and murmur devotion in his ear as he clings to me and gives me that milk-drunk half smile.
And that will be enough to get me to the starting line again.
