Care Instructions
From the essay collection Care Instructions
Plath
Years ago I believed I was a monster.
I was Andrea Yates, running the bath water. Susan Smith, releasing the brake and watching the car roll. I moved through my daily tasks with rage simmering but contained. My psyche felt papery and frayed like the old concert T-shirt you sleep in—familiar yet unrecognizable from the one you bought.
Moms talk to one another about being “so frustrated,” and exhausted, but we never admit the depth of our darkness, our violent thought flashes. We don’t say at play group that we feel trapped, ready to flee. I never had thoughts of doing the unspeakable like Yates or Smith, but when I struggled to get through a day without losing my shit, when I faced postpartum depression, when I felt trapped in the beautiful life I had created, I understood that any one of us could snap like that.
I’m writing for my daughters. When I say this, I’m really telling you I finally feel worthy of them and this life calling of guiding them. Not too many years ago I thought maybe they would be better off without me.
I’m a good mom, even though I came home from work tonight and told the kids to eat cereal for dinner as I crawled into bed. You’re a good mom too, even if you drive through McDonald’s every day or let them say “fuck” when they’re in kindergarten (but never at school or around old people). If your children feel loved and understood, you are exactly the mom you need to be.
