My brain was bulging with ideas all day on what I could write about tonight. The words were flowing through my brain cells. Then I got home four hours ago and am now exhausted from caring for my daughter. I have forgotten everything that was so lucid earlier in the day. This is the stop and start of motherhood. I start projects that I have to abandon because my daughter needs something doing. While I love being a mother the stop and start of motherhood is frustrating, to say the least. Sometimes it causes me to question whether I am capable of finishing anything or whether the 'stop and start' is my construction for procrastination.
I recently heard Ana Luisa Amaral, a feminist mother poet from Portugal, speak about a moment in her life when her daughter broke a bowl in the kitchen. The broken pieces lying against the floor inspired a poem within her but she could not pick a pen up and write those words down, the broom was a far more practical implement for the moment. The moment was lost.
My frustration is best represented by Adrienne Rich's words: "...Sometimes I seem to myself, in my feelings toward these tiny guiltless beings, a monster of selfishness and intolerance...And I am weak sometimes from held-in rage...And yet at other times I am melted with the sense of their helpless, charming and quite irresistible beauty..."