One of my first and many dumb tattoos. Trust for Sale. I mean I’m not totally serious about it being dumb, (you might for sure think it is), but it meant so much for me at the time. Breaking trust was so easy. Earning it back sucked.
“I wish you could buy trust.” I remember thinking. At the height of my downtrodden hopeless romantic listening to Bright Eyes phase. Makes sense right? Super good idea to tattoo above your heart at age 23 with no regard for anything.
But now it holds a whole new weight. A real true weight.
My baby is putting all her money on me. Trusting me with her life & introduction to well, everything.
I chose at 41, to consciously in 2022, during a global pandemic, unemployed and grieving, to have a baby. My husband and I eloped in Vegas in August and by Christmas I was, as they say, with child.
They also say that when a baby is born, so is a mother. This statement rings true. What I’ve also found to be very true about the subject of motherhood and what people have to say about it is that much like having an opinion or an asshole, it’s a given. So who cares.
One person I’ve been talking to a lot about Momsville is Kati Moore. @ohheyitskatimoore
Kati and I come from the same small town, Chilliwack, BC Canada. We went to the same high school, probably smoked our first cigarette at the same 7-11 and her husband Matt is my youngest brother Clark’s best friend. We didn’t hang much then with our age gap, but we did all find ourselves in Los Angeles together for a few months in 2011.
I remember one night at an open mic at the Kibitz Room as the boys both played, my girlfriends and I talked to Katii about their plans. She talked about how she wanted kids. I respected it, but at this point was very much the person I’d decided to be.
The one without kids.
Then I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. And I fucking did. Almost everything fun and cool and scary and stupid I’d wanted to do.
They also say that with death comes life. And around the time of my fathers demise I started to finally want to be a mother. And I mean it consumed me. I’d party at home, cause duh thats what addicts do, and fucking doom-scroll baby instagram pages on blow until sunrise.
I needed one. A baby. It was like a hunger. It’s hard to explain and also not.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say again. When you have 24 hours a day to do drugs, something’s gotta give.
I found out I was pregnant a month after my dad had passed. Finally some good news in the tsunami of bad. Pandemic. Lost Job, Lost Grandfather, lost Father all in 2 months.
I was elated and saved.
And since I’d waited for so long in life. I was ready for this. I want to stay home and read books on the floor. To romanticize life as someone experiences it for the first time in front of my eyes, “I’m gonna slayyyy at being a mom” I think. “Heck! I already have depression and anxiety, what could be so bad about Postpartum?
So during some random instagram DM’s about who knows what we thought it would be cool to both write a little diddy about our experiences as mothers. Hers beginning at age 26, mine at 41. We’ve had a lot of parallel experiences in life, small shitty town, super close to people obsessed with Bob Dylan and random successful modeling careers that started in our late 20’s/ early 30’s which I’d say is actually a positive sign of the times.
So we went forth with confidence on our writing plan…and more DM’s.
Alas, had we failed?
I had meant to tell Kati “Happy Mothers Day,” Let’s say fuck it to this idea. But she sent me a version from the bathtub a few hours ago.
Before I share her prose, I asked Kati for her “Mom Resume” Her Momsume if you will.
Fucking impressive! See Photo Below
These are the words Kati shared tonite after almost a decade into her journey with motherhood.
If you've ever wondered if it's possible to feel like you're doing everything but accomplishing nothing, it is.
Happy Fucking Mother's Day.
And it morphs from something stretching you from the inside out, to something that demands more from you physically than you can possibly bear, to a sliding scale ranging from pride to fear to elation.
All, in addition to being a woman. An actual, living, breathing being that exists beyond your children. A role. An expectation. A service.
I carried them but now they walk. They run.
And so will I.
This is what I wrote.
Being pregnant was the most comfortable I’d ever felt in my body, ever.
I loved that I didn’t have to constantly strive for thinness. I was allowed to just relax.
Read a book. Nap all day. Yeah I threw up, but this was nothing compared to my years of monster hangovers.
I had a few mini scares where Sean and I rushed to the ER, to make sure the baby was safe. (She was) but I was still picking my skin. This had become a massive problem.
It’s a form of distraction and control I’m trying to ease to this day.
It had gotten to the point where I’d just pour hydrogen peroxide from my neck down over my whole body. Stinging as it dripped, mixing in with blood and onto the bathroom tile.
When I last tried on my never-worn wedding dress that doesn’t fit anyways, the girl at the store had asked me if I’d been attacked by a swarm of bugs.
Bro, first of all. Like shut up. Second. Shut the fucking fuck up.
After my C-section one of the nurses who led me by the arm to use the restroom looked at my arms and legs and cringed. I knew what she thought.
“It’s not monkey pox,” I assure her. “I pick my skin when I’m anxious.” She still disapproves.
I didn’t care. I was high on Percocet and only a few hours out from being cut open and having a human removed from my body and then stitched back up.
She wiped for me. All blood.
“Fuck her, man, I think to myself. Jesus. When are they going to let me eat?”
I don’t remember much of the hospital. Overjoyed and overwhelmed. Each nurse scolding a different way to feed. Attached to pumps.
Excited to eat a tray of cold rectangle shaped foods that had been on the table for hours and looked worse than something you’d see in a 1970s British Nursing Home. I think it was like some kind of beef. And I drank fucking MILK. Cow’s milk. Fuck almonds or oats. I’m actually fully back on my bullshit with the milk. Chugging it straight out of the carton like its 1987.
I’m the same person but completely new. You can be shitty when it’s just you. Now I had to be better.
In my house we have a saying “DO IT FOR HER” (which is a deep cut Simpsons reference, iykyk)
We just want to do everything for Izzy. For Her.
It’s the same world. But another stretch on the path I’ve chosen. Like being in another world in Super Mario Brothers and I like, have Yoshi now. My little pal.
The past 9 months feels like a bit of a fever dream. Beautiful humblings & terrifying realizations. It’s been the biggest reward of my life. I love seeing my daughter experience everything. I’m so glad I don’t have to think about my fucking self all day anymore. For a few years I have someone that will hopefully laugh at all my jokes. I might not be the Queen of Hollywood like I expected, but I’m the Queen of my home. And home is where I cannot be replaced.
Sure, I am not cool with how I look right now. I’m scared my husband won’t be attracted to me. I got hit with such a wave of PPD that I’m just now coming out of it.
“Nothing a prozac and a sandwich can’t fix ! I like to say these days.
So it seems whether your are 26 or 41, you’re newly born as a mother.
Fresh from the stork!
So be kind to yourselves Moms, we’re the only ones that can handle this shit.
LG & KATI