Motherhood

In – two – three, out – two – three. Thump, Thump, Thump.

My feet pound against the ground, stirring up dust and sending grains of gravel flying. My legs feel strong, capable.

I relish this feeling. My next breath is deep and steady, infusing oxygen in my blood and giving my legs a burst of enthused speed which I struggle to reign in. This run is about pacing, not racing. I’m not trying to show off in a sprint, but rather demonstrate consistency and capability. I can run 10km while keeping my breathing steady. I can do it. I can feel the stretch of my muscles and grin with the challenge. I can focus on nothing but the mechanics of my run. I can completely clear my mind and silence my thoughts. It’s meditative after a day of throwing yourself into work. Healing. Cleansing.

In this moment, I can do absolutely anything.

Squinting into the sun I lift my hand and wipe away a dribble of sweat which was threatening to breach the protective barrier of my eyebrows. I blink away the salty droplets and gaze out at the path ahead. Two golden retrievers trot along next to their owners. Their tongues loll out of their mouths, panting in the heat of a summer evening along the beach. One of them tilts its head up, gazing with clear adoration at its owner. I smile, and glance up along with it.

The dogs’ owners are a couple, holding hands. The one on the left breaks out into a rolling laugh and the other grins alongside, pure joy and love shining in their eyes. My heart stutters, falling into the deep pit of my stomach. I stumble slightly on the soft path as reality catches up to me, having chased me down and pounced when I least expected it.

Okay, I can do almost anything. Reality is hard to outrun.

I cough. I feel like I’ve taken a hit to the stomach. Suddenly I feel a burning in my thighs and a weight in my chest. I’m winded, panting. God, was the sun always this hot? A wind whips up around me, sending a small tornado of dust into my sweat drenched face. My thoughts are racing now. They are sprinting through my mind with reckless abandon. 

I force a deep, shuddering breath. I have to keep my breathing under control.

In – two – three, out – two – three. Come – on – now, just – fucking – breathe.

My breathing settles slightly, but my mind does not. My partner’s face swirls around my mind from all angles. A myriad of imagined moments assault me. Blinding me more thoroughly than the sun. Us moving in together, laughing as we hammer nails in the wall and hanging up the mismatched art we have purchased for each other over the last years. Us lounging on a thrifted couch during the weeknights. Sharing insignificant details about our day apart. Learning the small habits we both have, the ones that aren’t obvious when you don’t live together. That aren’t obvious even to ourselves. Reflecting on our silly moments, happy moments, ridiculous fights. House-hunting. Gardening. Working alongside each other. Cooking alongside each other. Begrudgingly discussing a chore routine – as long as I don’t have to change the bed sheets I swear I will do anything else! All these moments we haven’t shared together yet. I scoff as my mind reaches further in the future now. Children. I watch as he bounces the baby on his knee, overjoyed. He is a natural dad. He smiles at me, I’m holding the baby now. Cuddling it to my chest, feeding with a bottle. I can’t even picture breastfeeding – I would have to do that. God, I’ve totally skipped the pregnancy, labour. My stomach sinks further. I’m watching as an observer now. Us waking in the middle of the night, walking with a pram, the three of us playing together. I can’t see my face. First steps, first words. The first time feeding solids, food on the floor and walls and smeared across each other. What age does that happen. I don’t know anything. How hard is it to introduce allergens; nuts, soy, meat. I don’t even eat meat, how will I feel cooking meat? Will he take on that responsibility instead? He wants the child, will he be more involved than I will? No, I would throw myself into motherhood. Wouldn’t I? That thought is gone and next its daycare and all the sickness and pain that comes with it. Injuries, disabilities, mental health. School time, having to deal with a clique of mothers, the big cars all the mums buy now, another fun extra expense. Seriously if can’t even afford to rent by myself, how can I afford to raise a child. And the time spent, the effort. I barely have work-life balance now. School sports, extra-curricular activities, friends, sleep overs, consent, safety, bullying, are we a good team and how do you know before it happens, what would our work schedules be like, am I working still, do I still have hobbies, am I a good mother? I don’t know what I am doing but am I happy?

I wrench myself from my thoughts with a gasp and throw myself towards the drinking fountain ahead of me. I feel faint. Or sick. I feel empty. Or so full of terror and sadness there is no room for anything else. Tears prick my eyes now. I know my breath is lost. I guzzle the water messily, letting it splash my face and wash the salty sweat and tears from me. The cold stream isn’t cold enough to shock me from my panic.

I cough again. Off I go. Running, running, running. I try to settle back into my pace. It’s futile.

I feel selfish. Disgusted. Who thinks about how annoying and expensive the administration of sending a child to school will be when considering whether they want to bring a child into the world? The socialising, the effort, the planning. Pretending to be someone I am not. I know my thoughts are barely scratching the surface of this decision. Are these just the thoughts of someone who has never wanted to be a mother, and cannot truly imagine what it would be like because she has never genuinely wanted it, or are these thoughts normal. Am I avoiding the ones that really hurt. Am I considering all this to see if I really might want them, if I am scared or just not sure, or do I just want to save my relationship. Would I have ever considered this unprompted?

How does anyone know if they genuinely want it? They say that you will never be ready. It’s always terrifying, but it always works out. It is the best thing that will ever happen to you. You think you know what love is until you have a child. It's so nice to have a big family. Who will look after you when you are old.  

Why does every argument for having children seem to imply that life will be unfulfilling if you don’t have them. What an insult to all those who choose not to, or cannot. Why is life automatically less than if you don’t sacrifice everything to bring another life into the equation.

Why can’t my answer just be maybe. Maybe I will want them. Maybe I won’t. Why does it matter. Am I not enough within the relationship for him to be happy no matter what happens?

I know that isn’t fair. As horrible as I am feeling now, someone might spend the rest of their life feeling this lost if they don’t have children. He would resent me. I wouldn’t be enough.

How terrified do I have to be before someone takes me off the hook and tells me, “No that’s okay, you definitely shouldn’t be a mother”. How could anybody look at me right now and think I could be a mother. How can he want children with me. Why does he think that he does.

My pace has increased again. I can’t maintain this for much longer, and then I really won’t be able to push away these thoughts that are deepening by the minute. The political state of the world, the wars, climate change, the housing crisis, poverty. None of those issues are going away. None of those issues are ones I can fix. How can I justify bringing a child into this world when every day I learn something horrible that breaks my heart. How can I know whether the good outweighs the bad.

I cannot escape the growing dread, nor the realisation that as much as I might try to run, I am still moving closer and closer to the deadline for decision making no matter the direction I take. Fresh terror pumps through my veins at that thought. I am not ready. I can't do this.

Step by step I slow down. I fumble in my pocket for my phone and, blessedly, the song which had faded into the back of my mind comes blasting forth into my ears. The beat provides a guide for my legs as they push me forward. In – two – three, out – two – three. I relax my shoulders, straighten my back. I feel my lungs open slightly and the tingling in my head and chest begins to fade.

It’s going to be okay. I can do this. Just one foot in front of the other. Let’s see how much further I can run.