F is for Falling apart (thru motherhood)

It’s usually happens right after drop off or just before school pick up. I’m in the car by myself. No one asking for another snack or song request.

I sit here- car engine on, seat heaters on, as I attempt to shut out the world just long enough to find myself there in my alone-ness.

Yeah, I’m alone but I know I’m not really alone. I’m one of millions of us mamas who finds sanctuary alone in her car. It’s often the only quiet, contained sliver of space and time we allow ourselves; the only safe, uninterrupted space we can find to simply feel the weight of our world, and summon ourselves back up to the surface.

Motherhood has been a real doozy. And by doozy I mean extraordinary.

As in extra- ordinary.

…a lot of ‘extra’ everyday ordinary tasks stitched together into an over-scheduled, often over-whelming rather unremarkable day that is chock-full of screaming and weeping, and rushing, and pleading; dancing and singing, and doubting, but still doing; forgetting and forgiving; repairing and not caring about getting it right, while still trying to get it right; laughing and loving in a way that hurts your insides.

…it’s chock-full of much-needed conversations interrupted and buried somewhere alongside those missing socks and vulnerable bids for connection that go unnoticed because “mama, MAMA, I need to tell you something!’

…it’s chock-full of having done so much without getting anything done; feeling both lonely and suffocated, empty and full- all of it, all at once.

it’s ‘rose- thorn & budding’ the day to bed until they are fast asleep- chubby bare feet tucked beneath stuffies and silky sheets; finally taking what feels like your first breath- head and heart at peace, as you ready yourself to rinse and repeat…

Yeah, motherhood has been extraordinary.

As in extra-everything. On repeat.

Extra-beautiful. Extra-hard.

Extra feeling all the feelings all the time.

Extra fearing I’ll fuck ‘em up-

Because I missed the registration window,

or confused school pick up time.

Because I forgot pajama day,

or spirit week (what genius came up with that??),

or worse yet, I forgot myself.

Yeah, motherhood is extra everything-

including extra-grace-

for when all that shit actually happens,

cuz it has.

And most definitely will happen. Again.

Yeah, motherhood is extra everything.

Everything, but time.

Nope. We don’t get extra time.

I don’t think I truly understood the slipperiness of time until my children arrived.

How I can’t hold on to the way they crawl into my bed in the early morning hours, pressing their tiny bodies up against mine, digging their cold feet in and under my over-heated still half-asleep body to get warm.

Or how I can’t take back my losing my shit after their 1000^th attempt at negotiating bedtime when I could no longer muster any patience or access any grace, cuz fuuuuck, I’m tired.

And how I can’t fast pass through the meltdowns in the middle of the mall, or through my peri-menopausal brain fog that left me and the kids out of gas on the middle of Warner Avenue.

This new relationship with time has been a tricky one. It’s a daily dance between constantly catching up and consciously slowing down. And failing miserably at both. What we’re trying to catch up to and slow down from feels like some bullshit standard a bunch of old insecure men conjured up, and spoon-fed our mothers and mothers’ mothers- all as a way to trap us and contain us.

No, this isn’t some patriarchal rant or martyred complaint right now- this is just me – noticing it all, questioning it all- the rinse and repeat of it all- while simultaneously trying to accept the lackluster nature of this marvelous, miraculous shit show that is motherhood.

Most of my childhood besties came into motherhood waaaay before me. I’m what you’d call a ‘geriatric mama’(insert grandma emoji here). One of the upsides of being older is having the wisdom and humility to be okay with not knowing stuff, and learning to lean in and listen to those who’ve come before me.

Most of these OG friends of mine have recently sent their first (and/or last!!) “little one” off to college. The juxtaposition of their empty nest and my full plate is not lost on me. And still, no matter how often they have earnestly advised me to ‘enjoy this time, cuz’ it will slip right through your fingers,’ no matter how present I try to be to the fleeting ‘slipperiness’ of my current rinse and repeat life, I still find myself buried beneath the day and its ceaseless demands.

We’ve outgrown most nursery rhymes in our house. So, it’s been a while since we crooned and finger-played to good old’ Itsy-Bitsy Spider. But holy fuck, if this rinse and repeat cycle of ours isn’t sounding a lot like Itsy Bitsy’s life.

You know, that persistent little spider who despite getting washed out by the rain, still picks her tired, determined little self up and devotedly climbs back up the damn spout again? I mean was I the only over-tired, bleary-eyed mom that missed this sardonic ‘haha, welcome to your new life!’ memo hidden in plain sight??

Was I the only one reticent to admit that “Holy shit, I’m Itsy fucking Bitsy??!”

Well, great, I’m still here; parked in the car, but now having fallen down my useless mental spout of over-thinking. Lucky for me, I’ve been doing this exhaustive, mental schtick long enough to know- there ain’t no thinking my way out of it.

Einstein knew his stuff when he said, ’you can’t solve a problem with the same mind that created it.’ In other words, if you’re gonna fall apart, you gotta get ‘out of your mind’. If you’re gonna fall apart, then at least feel it.

And well, if you know me than you know in my world, feeling is healing.

If you know me than you know music is one of my sure-fire ways to feeeeel.

Music is my medicine. It’s often a song that brings me back to the heart of what my mind is not equipped to fix. It’s often a song that ultimately helps me access, honor and feel whatever it is I’m struggling to feel.

So, in my fragile, fallen apart, ‘I’m nothing but a washed up old, mama spider’ moment in the car, I turn to Siri, and immediately ask her to play one of my go-to ‘need to cry’ songs.

When the weight of the world I’m holding begins to press down on my chest, and I feel there’s no breath left; when I am lucid enough to remember that keeping it all together is a self-induced prison, and falling apart it my ticket to freedom, this is what I play…

I’m sure some of you may find this cheesy. Some of you may not even be familiar with this 1986 throwback lyrical gem, but it’s been a salve of mine way before I fully understood it.

Carly Simon wrote this song for the Mike Nichols/Nora Ephron film Heartburn with Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep. It chronicles the tolls of motherhood and a collapse of a marriage.

One of my besties and I were oddly obsessed with the film. My curious 12 year old self appreciated some redeeming truth amidst all the Disney fairy tales I had been fed. There was something refreshing and real about it.

When you first listen to the song its common to assume Carly is simply painting a somber and sobering portrait of the film’s failing marriage. Well,

1) there is nothing simple about Carly (love her), and

2) what I heard and experienced through these verses was so much more:

How this whole rinse and repeat life- of marriage and motherhood (or just trying to adult as a decent human!) is so fucking hard.

How life will continue to break our hearts. Be it a person, circumstance, or crisis. And how, we are constantly being asked to summon the courage to get back up; to pivot and try again; to trust and stay with it, or trust and let it go.

It’s all so bewildering: how something can feel so damn defeating in one moment and gratifying in the next. How on some days loneliness takes on a new flavor I can’t seem to digest (hi, heartburn…). Or how wanting them close and needing my space all at the same time leaves me twisted and conflicted, questioning:

“Why do I need to escape the only place I want to be??”

Yep. And we wonder why we fall apart?

But let’s be honest, I was falling apart well before motherhood (aka my life on steroids). And then I heard the best damn verse of all verses in this song, and something in me shifted. It was decades ago, but it still holds (me) up. Now more than ever.

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“So, don’t mind if I fall apart, there’s more room in a broken heart.”

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The first time I heard that line - it was like God had found a clever way -via Carly Simon, of course- to let me know it was okay to not be okay all the time. Her words made me a little less afraid of feeling. A little less afraid of failing, fucking up, or falling apart. Like falling apart wasn’t an inherently bad thing or weak thing, just a necessary human thing.

Like “Az, you’re missing the point. Falling apart is THE thing!”

Even as I wade (and complain!) through the dulling sameness of my ‘chop wood and carry water’ life, there’s a part of me deep down that knows nothing stays the same. It’s not meant to. That every time I take that extra deep breath while stuck in traffic, succumbing to Desi’s request to hear the same song for the umpteenth time, or every night I begrudgingly surrender and scoot in close until Rumi falls asleep in her own bed, I know just as there was a first time, there will be a last. That this extra-ordinary, extra-everything life is all so fleeting. And there’s so much grief there-sidled up alongside the slipperiness of it all.

I’m settled in the car, half way through the song when I realize that Siri has “accidentally” played me the live version of Coming Around Again. Now, sure, no big deal except, in this version, guess what playful words Carly weaves in??!

Itsty fucking Bitsy!!

Right then and there, I feel myself soften, my heart (and flood gates) open as the medicine works its magic. (Yep, God finds her clever ways to reach me through Siri, toooo.)

Carly’s reference to our resilient little spider is no accident. I know.

Like Itsy, there are many days when what we do feels so small, so insignificant and inconsequential.

It’s riddled with disappointment and frustration, heartbreak and inconvenience. And yet, no matter how many times we grapple with the heartburning bewilderment of motherhood; no matter how many times we exhaustively question EVERYTHING we did or didn’t do “right” or why we’re the ones left to do it in the first place, we still get up and do it again.

It dawned on me (kinda like the sun who dries up all the rain)…when you are the sun in someone else’s world, there is nothing small or inconsequential about the rinse and repeat cycle of your day. And there is great dignity and deep courage in giving yourself permission to fall apart. Sometimes falling apart is the only way many of us know how to stop or slow down long enough to notice the magnificent web of a life we’ve woven for ourselves.

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Sometimes falling apart is the only way many of us know how to stop or slow down long enough to notice the magnificent web of a life we’ve woven for ourselves.

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If love were a verb, we’re doing it all day. That’s what keeps coming around.

I think the reason we fall apart so much is because we love so hard.

And so, if my falling apart in the car is a sign of my loving so damn hard, if my rinse and repeat life is proof of that love, then bring on the rain.

Cuz’ this tired-ass mama will keep coming around again- just like Itsy Bitsy, just like love.

So, I guess where ever you’re reading this (maybe parked in that makeshift refuge of a car somewhere), if you’re falling apart, I feel you. You are one bad-ass Itsy fucking Bitsy, and you’re not alone. We are- all of us- just rinse and repeating our way through together.

Somedays are full of roses. Somedays the thorns make it harder to imagine the buds. And yet, I know we’ll do ‘rose thorn and bud’ again tonight, like we always do. And in this fallen apart /car door closed /heart broken open moment, this is what I know to be true:

My rose is I’m here.

My thorn is I’m here.

My bud is if I’m lucky

I get to be here, again. Tomorrow.

As the song comes to an end I put the car in drive, pull away from the curb, and press repeat.

Love, Az xoxo