The Momoir Project

By Cori Howard

I am lying in bed with my 8-year-old son, rubbing his back in the dark, trying to help him sleep. He tosses and turns, sniffles and snuggles. This is our time, our few minutes alone. His 5-year-old sister is already asleep and as he we lie together under the warm blankets, he interrupts long stretches of silence to tell me about his day, his fears, his dreams.

And yet, I am resentful about having to be here in the dark with him, knowing the longer it takes, the sleepier I will get, and the harder it will be to rouse myself to go downstairs to do the dishes, the laundry, make lunches. The longer it takes, the less time I will have to finish my work, read a book, decompress, talk to my husband.

But sometimes – not often enough — I remember to be grateful for this dark, meditative time. When my children were babies, I used to sit for hours breastfeeding or with a sleeping child on my chest, unmoving for fear of waking them, keeping still until body parts went numb, thinking and thinking. For a writer, all that free mental time was restorative, calming and incredibly creative. I would come up with story ideas, plan new book projects, start letters to my children.

Tonight, I am trying to be grateful, trying to use this quiet time to clear my head. But as I stare up at the ceiling, I am wide-eyed with the fear that I have forgotten something. The list rattles off inside my head: remember to pack swimsuit for Jaza’s class, is there enough food in the fridge for two dinners and lunches, when will I get to the grocery store, who will drive Ty to soccer on Saturday?

My brain is firing questions I can’t answer and it’s making me hyper-ventilate. Stressed, I jump out of bed, give my son a quick kiss goodnight and head downstairs to stare at the calendar. This is the only time I feel like an organized mom: looking ahead at the next day and knowing what’s coming. Motherhood has made a good Buddhist out of me. I live day to day, moment to moment. If you ask me about my weekend, I will say, “I don’t remember.” If you ask me what I’m doing tomorrow, I will say, “I don’t know.” Unless I’m looking at my calendar. (For those of you who are wondering: I haven’t bought an iPhone yet. I can’t imagine adding that to my to-do list right now, and can’t even afford my cell phone bill.)

Tomorrow - my big, antiquated paper calendar reminds me - I teach a class at night so I must try to prepare dinner in the morning, along with breakfast and school lunches. I have to remember to register my kids for summer camps. I have to call my mother, write a chapter for my new book, update my website, cancel the dentist, check my emails, have a shower, pick up the kids.

I close my eyes, standing there in the cool, night air of my kitchen, and I think: tomorrow, I will lie with my son and breathe. Deep breaths. In and out.