I’m sitting in a coffee shop, listening to The Civil Wars and Regina Spektor on Spotify whilst working on my PhD and I suddenly feel myself. It’s not this “Yay, I’m away from kids and listening to music and working” hurrah exactly, it’s something like I can imagine myself again, unencumbered, for a moment. Why I am an introvert. Listening with a slanted look to lyrics, feeling them in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time (the time when I’d write poems about piano sonatas or even just wrote anything beyond the FB status updates that consume us all). And I can breathe.
And then I wonder if this mothering thing that I do day in and day out is just something that has been a honed skill. What if motherhood isn’t *me*? For someone with now three children, the idea that there’s more than mothering is both terrifying and electrifyingly wonderful.
I’ve always known (and in the past really fought for) that I’m more than my role. But it’s amazing how much (good and bad) comfort we can find in roles, that by putting them on like clothes in the morning, we take satisfaction. Part of this is I think God-given, the glory in the mundane, daily work-a-dayness of life that we’re here for. At the same time, it can all too easily slip into identity.
It’s nice to get a glimpse of me, a relief to know she’s in there, changed and different because of the motherhood gig, but still there.