How To Mother Yourself

Take a long bath. If you don’t have a tub, take a long shower. One time, when my daughter was three months old, I ugly cried in the shower wondering if I would ever take a long shower again. I took such a long shower recently that I drafted this post in it. Look how far I’ve come! My advice is tried and true. Let the shower, or the tub, become your water castle. Let no one in. Let no one cross your moat. Not even your husband or your wife or whoever is near your realm. My husband knows an attempt at contact is an act of treason, especially on hair wash day. Remain until you’re a prune. Then I recommend putting on the softest outfit you possess. For me, it’s my late grandma’s old t-shirt that says Wolf Laurel, North Carolina on it that I stole from her dresser decades ago and a pair of sweater pants. I don’t know what the material is of the sweater pants because I’m not one of those trendy fashion women I adore, but they are pink and delicate and cloud-like. Then I recommend getting in the car. Make sure your husband is staying home with the baby, of course. Tell him that you’re going for a drive. You may bring back some Taco Bell, if he’s lucky. This has to be done at night, when it’s dark out, otherwise it feels like an errand. When it’s done under the moon, however, it feels like an adventure. On the way to nowhere, turn up the volume until your speakers are shaking. Scream the lyrics. Harmonize like you’re fucking Pentatonix. Open the windows. Let your soaking wet hair slap you across the forehead while it dries out in the navy wind. I recommend the music that helped you survive teenagerhood. Then I recommend pulling up to a Taco Bell like you’re the Queen of Tortillas and ordering a chicken quesadilla, a beef chalupa, a bean burrito, and a medium Baja Blast (iced, not frozen, obviously, it needs to burn). Read out the laundry list of additional menu items your husband wanted; make sure the list is so long that you can’t make it through the order without laughing like you’re the child. Bring home the feast. Lay it out on the couch like a spread for Vogue. Burrow yourself in the cushions. Let the cheese drip down your chin as you chomp. Don’t get a paper towel until it’s all gone. Remember who you are. Remember that you love long baths and long showers and your grandma’s t-shirt and night drives and cheap fast food. Remember that time is fleeting; remember that everything hard will pass, and everything soft will linger.

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