My Mid-Mom Crisis

I did a thing — that thing is pictured above. As I watched the swirling electric blue water slide down the drain, I wondered, “What am I doing?” This was the culmination of weeks of quasi-depression. Stranded at home during the week without a car had me feeling a little Tom Hanksy a la Cast Away, except my “Wilson” is a wiggly, often-fussy, living infant who literally needs me to survive. No, I did not paint my baby with a bloody hand print but I have been known to drop crumbs of chips on his head as I feed him and myself simultaneously, plus the majority of my communication is to someone/thing that cannot respond.

I find it hard to pinpoint what I had been feeling the weeks before my baptism into blue, probably because I was not feeling much of anything. I was numb. If I chanced look upon myself in the mirror, I was indifferent at the person I saw there. Unkempt, unwashed, neglected, I barely recognized her and did not care to know her. She was a shadow of myself. Dark rings under my eyes, living in pajamas, I was not exactly interesting. And my hair, my brown, boring hair topped it all off. It was as unremarkable as I felt.

There wasn’t much to look at in the mirror so I didn’t spend much time looking anymore. My tattoos are quietly tucked away, out of view when I am fully clothed. My stomach is still paunchy and loose from my volleyball’s entrance into the world, sporting the newest decoration: stretch marks. I’ve heard people say, “I earned my tiger stripes” in reference to them. But I will confess, I was rather happy after my first child when I didn’t have any stripes to speak of. Now that I do, it became another new reality of life for me to face. Or not face — I preferred to look away.

I’m not sure when or how the idea to go blue struck me. It could be the fact that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is one of my favorite movies and I was wishing to be half as complex and interesting as my woman-hero, Clementine. She took the manic pixie dream girl trope and smashed it on its head. I needed a little “Blue Ruin” in my life. A little shakeup, a little tear-down, a little start again. I needed to break out of the traditional motherhood stereotype. Fittingly, this piece I read after going blue says:

“When Clementine’s hair turns blue in the present, it’s a fresh beginning of sorts, a blank slate… Clementine’s hair is blue when she experiences her most intense moment of identity loss, when her mental state is seriously in ruins.”

Imitation of art in life much? After all, identity loss was at the crux of it, really. I wasn’t feeling at all like myself. I had forgotten my self. But had I lost myself completely? Cue the existential crisis. Curtains up. Enter the era of the mid-mom crisis. Spotlight on. Fade to blue.

I was feeling like a stranger in my own skin. I desperately needed to reclaim my space. How? Celebrate my body? I wasn’t ready for that, yet. My body still doesn’t feel like mine. I’m sharing it. I brought life into the world with it. A life was inside me, through me, and now uses me to sustain it. My breasts are not mine: heavy, hard, full of milk. My arms are not mine, so often cradling, rocking, patting, straining. My hands are not mine: devoting hours to changing, cleaning, touching, caring. My heart is not mine: it wanders outside of me, loving, split, living in the little people I brought into this world. My mind is not mine: roaming, wondering, juggling. I love this messy, beautiful life of mine but somehow, for a time, I was lost in it.

Blessed, bountiful, beautiful blue gave me a reason to look at myself again, to wonder at myself: my intricacies, my mysteries that still exist. Blue helped me remember that I can surprise myself. I can be brave and foolish. I can be young and free. There is so much more of me left to discover. Mother and much more than a mother or perhaps, so much other than a mother. All of this exists inside of me, under this blanket of blue, in my mind, housed in this body that I am finally learning to embrace. It is about so much more than pretty and practical — it’s personal.

The next time you feel deserted on the island of motherhood or womanhood, feel free to borrow a page of my script and do something wild. Reclaim your space. Your body. Your home. Mental and emotional health cannot be overlooked. You cannot afford to overlook yourself. Whether it’s blue or purple or pink, a new tattoo, a new dress, a massage, a vacation, a nap, something, anything — invest the time and energy in rediscovering yourself because you are worth it.

Hair by Vanessa Ramirez