Memoir of motherhood: A novelist (and mother of two) writes about the anxieties of raising daughters
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On superstition
Despite all these sunny joyous claims I now speak of, it was all also so difficult that in the early months of motherhood, I sometimes Googled non-life-threatening reasons to get admitted to the hospital for one week.
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I couldn’t think of any way to “switch off ” from motherhood other than something that would be medically required. I didn’t think I deserved a walk or a coffee or, God forbid, a massage. I didn’t actually want to get a drink with friends and even when Mikey offered to handle an overnight shift so I could sleep, I would make myself get up with him to assuage my guilt. Oh guilt.
That wonderful emotion that immediately grips mothers by the throat. It gripped me tight. If I spent self-indulgent time away from my baby, something bad was bound to happen. And once you have a child, the idea of Something Bad Happening can be a pervasive and continuous thought.
I wasn’t new to this idea that my actions somehow controlled the uncontrollable things around me. I went through a phase when I thought for sure my plane would crash if I didn’t keep my right hand on my left shoulder just so. I...