Nesting

My Child’s Daughter

As I stared, stunned, at the two lines, my thoughts drifted to my own mother. I was a planned child, a glimmer of hope and new beginnings. I thought of the last moments I saw her. I thought of the pain, both mine and hers. The look of helplessness clouded over with the hopeless worries of a mother for her child. I held her hand until she told me to go. And I looked back as she kissed her hand and waved. I left her with the promise to return. She died that night.

And so there in that tiny bathroom I knew. These two blue lines that came so unexpectantly into my life, were actually not a new beginning but instead a long waited return. I laughed. My shaky hands cradled the two blue lines as I showed them to him. We do have a choice. No we don’t. It’s a non-negotiable deal. It’s her.

There are religions that believe firmly in reincarnation, the transformation of old souls into new life. I can’t say I do. But nor can I say I don’t. However I couldn’t write a blog about motherhood without writing about my own. A woman who suffered. Who spent her life bringing new life into the world and who gave her own to bring her 5 children into the world. A huge influence in my life; my morals, my decisions and my work. She’s an inspiration to overcome the pain and grief of her passing, and the pain and worries of motherhood.

However, the sad truth is that all that influence and inspiration fails to make an appearance when I need it most – amidst the chaos of progesterone – which can turn me into a massive emotional pain in the arse. It’s only after, when I sit and reflect, I calmly imagine her advice and guidance. And then I laugh to myself as I realise I’m imagining some godly-peaceful-figure, she was never a saint herself and I’ve gained many of her traits. She made many mistakes in her short life, she wasn’t perfect, but she was mine, and I loved her. I still do.

I remember someone told me once that losing their father was so difficult to deal with, and it wasn’t until their own son was born, that they could come to terms with it. I always wondered how. It can’t be a replacement, surely not, but it can heal a hole perhaps. Or maybe it’s more about understanding. My mother comes into my mind every day now. I don’t think my daughter can replace her, that by becoming a mother myself, I’ll lose the need for one myself. But perhaps I can then understand her. People say that a love a mother has for her child is incomparable by any standards, so perhaps I can understand the way she loved me and even the choices she made in the end.

No, I don’t believe that she is the midwife, only that without her I wouldn’t have my two blue lines. And that 50 years to the very day of her birth, my daughter will arrive.

Introduction

I always imagined it to be so beautiful. And there are many moments. But in fact it might just be one of the most difficult transitions of my life so far.

Reading a short book about art and motherhood entitled How We Do Both has inspired this blog alongside the book I am so slowly writing. Perhaps I don’t yet qualify to answer the questions posed by the writers, but as I’m sat very uncomfortably on a blanket on the floor, packing cushions into every nook and cranny of my body, I thought I’d begin by writing my thoughts, fear and visions for my future as an artist and a mother.

The first question asks how you logistically balance art making and motherhood. I read some inspiring views about finding balance in support networks made up of partners and nanny’s. With some rather despondent stories of abandoned studios and sacrificed showers for late night sketches on the kitchen table, and finally, artists accepting and embracing failure, of which I can already see the sense of liberation they speak of. Now although I haven’t gone the whole hog and given birth to my child yet, I sleep with these anxieties night after night.

16 weeks should be a beautiful time in pregnancy so I’m told. You are relieved of the exhaustion and sickness, the 12 week hangover that plagued your morning routine, whilst radiant, glowing skin replaces the pre-pubescent stain the hormones so kindly left. Meanwhile, you begin to grow your beautiful baby bump. In reality however, the intense pain is the only thing radiating through my body, signalling the complex changes going on inside that my very tiny frame must accommodate for. And in turn, the uncomfortable, sleepless nights make minor tasks seem daunting and that’s before you have made it to work. My once youthful, energetic body has turned into an overworked machine, catering first for the needs of my little one inside and me as an afterthought. But as this blog shall not be one long whine from a hormonal pregnant women, I will add that I do not mind all of these changes taking place. That my biggest priority in life now is the safe journey of my baby into the world. That with every flutter I am overwhelmed with feelings of protection and love.

So even at this stage, balance has no meaning. It currently exists as feelings of guilt for not being able to nor wanting to spend all my time in the studio. With every trall through my Twitter feed of artists, galleries, organisations and curators all tweeting and retweeting countless successes, missed exhibitions and opportunities, comes a quick burst of panic and failure. As right now to even think about the social events that sit nose to nose with being an artist is exhausting and uncomfortable in itself.

So I suppose at the moment I’m nesting: Trying to make a home for my baby. And not just the four walls with furniture and belongings, although that is also important, but the secure family, strong economical support and future prospects, all of which that would allow myself to keep working as an artist, whilst making enough money and whilst being the best mother I can. But that’s the question isn’t it. How can you possibly be a full artist and full mother? And if that answer is you can’t. Then I still stand happily by my decision to enter into motherhood.