This week, I had the honor of reconnecting with a good friend. As she shared all the good going on in her life, I watched the youngest son sleep peacefully. When it came my turn to share, I wasn’t sure where or how to start. Too much was going on. Before delving into all the Motherhood shit going on, little me’s posse grabbed the mic and spoke.
We miss smoking weed, excessively drinking red wine, dancing to live music and occasionally hoe’ing. Regular yoga was nice too. Every now and then my inner Grace Jones pops up, sneers at me and asks what the fuck am I doing with myself. I should be out in the world conquesting and shit. My friend listened and then reminded me that I could still do all those things, but I wouldn’t like the consequences. Truer words have never been spoken. I love my husband and children. I choose them over the single life.
After we got off the phone it dawned on me that a large part of me has refused to grow up. It’s angry for a childhood it never got and misspent teen years. It feels odd because I am not a running wild sort of person (—that may be part of the problem). I think it’s more honest to say that I never really felt safe or supported in fucking around. I’ve always felt responsible to or for something.
Whether responsibility meant anchoring a household at a young age, being the flag bearer for all black folk, upholding communal order or making sure that my drunk ass friends got home safely without fucking that dude, I was always about it. I’m not sure that I consciously allowed myself to be young and dumb. Instead I chose to be “old enough to know better yet too young to give a fuck” for far too long. I look back at my life and see a stubborn toddler, angry teen or depressed college student that clearly said fuck all this adulting shit. I want to play!
The fucked up thing is that being responsible is in me. It’s me on default. It’s what I do. I’m secretly 80 years old, too old for this bullshit and will help you solve your problems. However, I’m not sure how to bring these younger aspects to heel. I wish we could run the fuck amok, but that time is over. Those days have passed. There are children who need their mother and shit to do.
These aspects remind me that I don’t want to leave the same holes within the sons…. somehow I need to bring these parts of me to peace… we’ll see…