When her babies were born, she became devout. She knelt to change diapers, bowed over cribs in the stillness of night, pressed lips against cheeks and brows so soft she could have wept, and often she did.
She traded sleep for lying in wait, eyes closed but ears ever open for the sound of stirring, squeaking, for the onset of tears that would mean stumbling out of bed and pacing, pacing, so many countless hours of pacing, until the little head nodded to sleep once more. Sleep for the babes, but not for her.
She traded pleasure books for parenting books, silk dresses for snot-smeared sleeves, make-up for making up after tiffs and tantrums and tidal waves of post-partum tears. She lost herself and found herself, learned to mother, learned to let go, and let go again, and again.
There is a point at which every mother must reclaim what she has let go.
Looking back, other mothers told her, I would have taken more time for myself. I gave up so much for my children. I would have carved out space to feed my soul.
Yet others will remind her of quickly these years fly, how they're only little for such a little while --blink and you'll miss it -- as if to justify putting her own life on hold to capture every moment of theirs.
This is not how time works. It is not how memory works. One life cannot stop to preserve the memory of another.
So, bravely she goes where few mothers have the will to go without the deadweight of guilt dogging their footsteps. Lightly she steps onto the stage, dresses herself in ancient gowns and breathes life into another's body. Yes, she is away from her boys. Yes, she misses them, and they miss her. Yes, these late nights are taking their toll. But oh hell yes she is feeding her soul.
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