Moms Don't Have Time To

by Zibby Owens

  “You know this stage is going to end, right?” I told him. He looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Don’t crush my butterflies,” he said. “I’ll always have them!” I hoped he was right, but having fallen in and out of love many times, I wasn’t optimistic about that early stage lingering. I missed it while I was still in it.

  “You know this stage is going to end, right?” I told him. He looked at me like I was crazy. “Don’t crush my butterflies,” he said. “I’ll always have them!”

  At the resort that week, I alternated between realities. I waffled between the extreme sadness, anguish, and physical pain at being so far apart from my kids, who felt like an extension of my soul; and elation, electric attraction, and excitement at being with Kyle. Before meeting him, I realized a part of myself was dead. The fire inside me, what made me me, had been stamped out after a decade of decline. I’d felt like the inside of an old-fashioned barbecue grill long after dinner, a smoking pit of burnt charcoal briquettes, white with traces of fire, cracking at the edges, black smoke rising. Done.

  Now, suddenly, I was in full blaze, flames flying over the lid of the grill, dancing in the dark. Alive again. And yet, torn apart from the loves of my life for a week that felt endless, I would cry at random times, moon over pictures of them, and mourn as I felt the rope connecting me to them pulling and pulling. It felt familiar, like grief. But then I would shape-shift into a sex-starved adolescent, smoking with sensation as I got to know my new love.

  That night when I saw the crowd forming around the resort’s fire-pit, I raced over. I was there not to help my four kids make s’mores, but because I loved s’mores myself and wanted to make them. For me.

  Kyle and I were laughing and flirting as we roasted the puffy white confections. An exhausted, downcast mother lording over her sugar-packed kids on the other side of the firepit looked at us, sighed, and said, “What I wouldn’t give for just one minute of that feeling again.”

  I think about that mother every day.

  The fire inside me, what made me me, had been stamped out after a decade of decline. I’d felt like the inside of an old-fashioned barbecue grill long after dinner, a smoking pit of burnt charcoal briquettes . . .

  On so many days, I am that mother. And for so long, I was her every day. I had lost hope. I had relegated those emotions to the past while stuck in the sands of twenty-four/seven parenthood. But then, suddenly, I was reborn.

  “I have four kids!” I told her. “I’m the same as you! I felt the same way. But it can happen! It can!” She shook her head, resigned to her fate. We kept chatting over the fire. My new self was confronted with a version of my old self. I touched her arm and smiled as I walked away. I watched her with her family over the next week, waving as we crossed paths.

  It has been almost five years since that trip. Everything has changed. Puerto Rico was crushed in a massive hurricane. The pandemic wreaked havoc across the globe. Travel is barely possible. I’m ensconced in my home with my four kids and Kyle, now my husband of three years.

  The butterflies still flutter around us, but they’ve been tempered by world events, stress, ups and downs, losses, illnesses, and other struggles that life brings. The other night, as I was racing around upstairs, exhausted, folding laundry and trying to get my two teenagers and two little guys to bed, I glanced out back and saw Kyle and a friend of ours roasting marshmallows at our outdoor fireplace. I felt a stab of longing. Had I become that exhausted, resigned mom again?

  As I put tiny tank tops away inside my daughter’s closet, Kyle came bounding in, proudly offering up a s’more he had made just for me. I couldn’t even eat it.

  “I can’t now,” I said. “I’m still doing laundry and have to get the kids to bed and . . .”

  “But I made it perfectly, just the way you like it!” he said. I just shook my head. He walked out, dejected, taking the s’more with him.

  I immediately regretted how I’d handled it. Why hadn’t I let myself enjoy the treat? Why couldn’t I have stopped the chaos for a minute and let my own needs be met? Why hadn’t I let my husband make me happy, something that would have made him feel satisfied and proud?

  I found the s’more on my bedside table later as I climbed into bed, and left it beside me uneaten. It sat there all night as the two of us slept.

  The next morning when I saw it, I felt overcome by remorse. I rolled over and snuggled in with Kyle while he slept. Why had I handled things so badly? I got up and tossed the s’more into the garbage, then covered it up with tissues so he wouldn’t see.

  I miss those butterflies. I know they’re still fluttering around us. And I know I’m the one who doesn’t always stop to see them. But I know they’re there, dancing overhead.

  Zibby Owens is a writer and mother of four in New York City. She is a literary advocate and the creator and host of the award-winning literary podcast Moms Don’t Have Time to Read Books. She runs a literary salon with author events, a virtual book club, and a daily Z-IGTV live author interview series.

  Now’s Not the Time

  WENDY WALKER

  Recently, I was at a man’s house for a date. We’d been together for a few months. His house was empty. My house had just one teenager who was probably psyched that I was out of his hair for the night. As we sat on the couch searching for something to watch, having together time, building our relationship so it wouldn’t die from lack of oxygen, I felt a powerful desire to go home. Yes, my son would ignore me. Yes, he would spend the night FaceTiming his girlfriend while I watched Netflix in the next room. Still, he would know I was there, and I could not stop my feet from walking out the door.

  I went home. The relationship ended. And I had an epiphany.

  I have felt societal pressure to have a man in my life since I was a young girl. If I didn’t have one, then finding one was on my list of things to do. Sometimes at the very bottom, sometimes at the top, it was always there. On The List. Even after my divorce, when I was struggling to rebuild my life, take care of children, navigate a new career, I saw it back there. Near the top. In bold. In red ink. In flashing neon lights. And so, like most items on The List, I tended to this item with calculated diligence. Online dating, blind dates, matchmaking services, compromises, self-doubt, and a constant degradation of my standards. So he lives in his mother’s basement—maybe it’s just a rough patch?

  After a few painful years, I was very fortunate to meet a wonderful man, and I have no doubt that under different circumstances we would have shared an incredible life together. Violins, please. But wait . . . together we had six children, two jobs, and no path forward to merge our families. What we loved most about each other was the very thing that did us in—our children were at the top of our lists. I was devastated but, rather than throw in the towel, I became more determined than ever to find a solution.

  I have felt societal pressure to have a man in my life since I was a young girl.

  I decided to move this line item to the top of The List, and found a man ready to blend his family with mine. All in. One house. This ended with near-disastrous results. I moved back into my old house three months later and also moved the line item back to where it belonged. Below my children, my career, and my stable home.

  Fast-forward three more years to the man and the couch. As kind and fun as he was, I felt something different when I walked out the door. Relief. It was then that the epiphany came.

  It came to me like a perfect plot twist. As most writers well know, sometimes the best twist comes after diving deeper into the minutiae of the original premise. But other times, you have to zoom out and look at all of the assumptions that you made when you started the plot to begin with. Maybe the victim doesn’t die! Suddenly, a whole new story can be written.

  So rather than dive back in to attack this line item of finding a man, I zoomed out and asked the broader question of whether this item had to be on The List at all. At this stage of my life, I had everything that I needed to be happy. Three great childr
en who were almost launched into the world. A supportive family. Two handfuls of very close friends. And a hard-won career which I not only enjoyed but which had introduced me to a community of smart, supportive, and hilariously irreverent people. I had friendship, plans every Saturday night, financial security, deep satisfaction from all that I had accomplished, the ability to give back to others, and a home for my family that I had created and loved beyond measure.

  For the first time in my life, I took this item off The List. And something wonderful happened. I began to see myself through a completely different lens.

  I stopped caring about how many likes I had on an app or second glances I caught from across a room, but rather what I wanted to accomplish each day for myself, for my career, for my family.

  I started to feel about finding a man the way I feel when I walk past items at the grocery store that I don’t need that week. Complete indifference. And with that indifference came a freedom that I had never experienced before. I used that freedom to write two novels, deepen my friendships, tend to my children with heightened mindfulness, and—as a nice bonus—to get into the best physical shape I have been in since my years as a competitive figure skater.

  I started to feel about finding a man the way I feel when I walk past items at the grocery store that I don’t need that week. Complete indifference.

  The time will soon come when all of my children are off doing their own things and I’ll be grateful if I get a phone call once a week. A day will come when I have more time to give and less to lose by giving it. Then, I’ll know that it’s the right time to add this item back to The List. And when that happens, I will do so with careful intent on finding not just time for a man, but a lasting relationship of substance that will add joy to my life, and allow me to add joy to someone else’s.

  Wendy Walker is the author of thrillers The Night Before and Don’t Look For Me. A former attorney specializing in family law, her novels include Emma in the Night and All Is Not Forgotten.

  Moms Don’t Have Time to Cry

  LIZ ASTROF

  Before kids, shedding tears was my prerogative.

  I really needed to cry.

  I had just gotten news of a death: not a death related to me, but rather, the death of a friend’s mother. I had only met her once, so normally I wouldn’t have cried over this news, but my friend and her mother had a closeness that my own mother and I never shared, which triggered me. This upsetting news was compounded by the fact that my son’s principal told me he wasn’t picking up on social cues, and the thought of him being rejected by his peers broke my heart—I still hadn’t gotten around to crying about that. Earlier that week, I’d met a US Navy veteran who had rescued an older dog from death row at the pound. I told him he was a hero for saving the dog’s life, but he explained that after serving in Afghanistan and suffering from PTSD, that the dog had actually saved him. The dog saved him! So, there were also some happy tears still waiting to be shed.

  Moral of the story: I couldn’t cry about any of these things at the appropriate times, because I have children. Between feeding them, scheduling playdates, doctor visits, helping with homework, filling out field trip forms, buying new shoes (why do their feet grow so fast?!), drying their tears, and the millions of other “Mom, can you . . .” and “Mom, I need . . .” moments that pop up incessantly filling any gaps of time that might have otherwise been considered free, I don’t have time to cry. Most moms don’t.

  The world was my crying oyster.

  It’s not easy to satisfy our innate need to keep it all together for the kids at times when the pull to feel emotion—to be human—feels just as compelling. Eventually, the emotion will have to come out, like a splinter, or the truth. We just have to wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself.

  Once my kids are tucked into bed, I am free to lose my shit. Unfortunately, by the time I do all of the other things that I put off doing (like talking to my husband, and every so often, having sex with him so we don’t become estranged), I have hardly enough time to rewatch the first ten minutes of whatever Netflix show everyone is bingeing, before I pass out. The argument could be made for crying during sex. However, that’s when I make my shopping lists. (I can only multitask so much.)

  Once my kids are tucked into bed, I am free to lose my shit.

  Before I had kids, I unknowingly took a lot of little things for granted, like the value of the emotional release that accompanies the tears-pouring-down-your-face, runny-nose, use your sleeve as a tissue because you had no idea it was going to be that kind of cry, cry. Back then, I could cry whenever the urge arose: on the subway, on the street, in a cab, in a bar, in a bathroom, on my way home. I could cry at home. And when I did cry at home, I didn’t have to hide. I could walk from room to room just . . . crying. I could also cry about one thing at a time. I didn’t have to do my crying in bulk, like I do now.

  The world was my crying oyster.

  The shower has always been a great place for me to cry. These days, though, I’m always in such a rush that my showers are more of a three-in-one body wash/shampoo/conditioner situation with no time to access true emotion. On top of that, I’m constantly being interrupted by the “urgent” needs of my children. Even if I am so bold as to lock the bathroom door, I have to brace myself for the pounding and screaming that will inevitably ensue—noise that can easily pierce the barrier of any running shower, regardless of how strong the pressure. Even when they’re not pounding on the door, I’m waiting for them to pound on the door. The same goes for my closet, or any room with a dead bolt on the door.

  The argument could be made for crying during sex. However, that’s when I make my shopping lists. (I can only multitask so much.)

  Luckily, as a working mother, I do have some time to cry—like in traffic during my commute. One morning, I got into my car and before I could even get to my iTunes “Crying Mix” playlist featuring R.E.M’s “Everybody Hurts” and Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind” (I mean, why not?), I turned on the car and a bouncy song erupted from the speakers. Of course, I had to sing along. Once the song ended, my crying mood was gone, but I was determined. I needed the release that badly.

  Just as the lump was beginning to return to my throat, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go straight to voice-mail. But then I wondered who it was and what they wanted. It could have been a notice about a late payment on a bill. Or the pharmacy calling to say that my Xanax prescription was ready. (Or worse, not ready.) The caller didn’t leave a voice mail, but somehow the brief interruption in my scheduled crying time ruined it for me.

  That weekend, when my cry was way, way past due, I took my kids to see Toy Story 3. Toward the end, happy tears sprung to my eyes. It was finally time for my long-overdue cry session! But then my son, seven years old at the time, turned to me, head tilted, a concerned look upon his face, and said, “I have to go number two.”

  I had to call it off.

  I had all but given up, but then later that evening I was in the kitchen making stir-fry and I sliced into a particularly potent onion. Before I could finish peeling it, my nose was burning and tears were streaming from my eyes. Next thing I knew, I wasn’t just crying onion tears. I was crying real tears. With my back to my kids, I wept. I wept about all of the things I needed to cry about, and other things that I had forgotten about.

  It was guttural. It was ugly. It was glorious. And I had earned it.

  We all ate my tears for dinner. And it tasted like relief.

  Liz Astrof is an award-winning executive producer and sitcom writer. She is the author of Don’t Wait Up: Confessions of a Stay-at-Work Mom.

  The Life-Changing Magic of Letting Go

  JEANNE McWILLIAMS BLASBERG

  A midlife reckoning with my stuff.

  I once took a class in the art of memoir where the assignment was to write about an object and its meaning. I bristled at the prompt. Objects are only objects, I told myself, and imbuing them with meaning was mater
ialistic and shallow. It was akin to idolatry, which is against my religion, by the way. Besides, I was a mom trying to keep up with the stream of macaroni art, woodshop creations, and papier-mâché coming through the door.

  Eschewing sentimentality, I had been known to sweep entire tabletops of clutter into garbage bags. Oh sure, I’d hang my children’s masterpieces on the refrigerator for the requisite number of weeks, but they’d eventually get sent to the circular file . . . wink wink.

  In hindsight, I’ve realized that curation is a luxury for late middle-age, when the kids are out of the house and the mind is quiet. In my thirties and forties I’d vacillate between two extremes, either going on a rampage of throwing things away or pasting mementos from obvious milestones into albums. Now in my fifties, I fear I memorialized the wrong things and tossed the right ones. What I wouldn’t give for more samples of my kids’ poetry or handwriting. I wish I had recorded the peal of their laughter, their voices in the back seat of the car, the knock-knock jokes, the potty humor.

  Now in my fifties, I fear I memorialized the wrong things and tossed the right ones. What I wouldn’t give for more samples of my kids’ poetry or handwriting.

  In addition to albums of meaningless certificates and a smattering of Little League trophies, I’ve held on to practical items, furnishings I thought might make their transition to adulthood easier (maybe something of me they would want to take with them?). But no matter how often I suggest shipping a useful household appliance to one of our three adult children (a knife sharpener!), the answer is always the same, “It’s okay, Mom, I’m all set.”

  What we decide to hold on to is foremost on my mind as my husband and I move his ninety-two-year-old father out of his apartment. Despite all the work to be done, I find myself lingering among his decades-old artifacts, suddenly filled with compassion for the hoarding nature I was once so quick to criticize. He has kept yellowed envelopes containing locks of hair and God-awful pottery paperweights. It’s becoming clear we humans cling to things as a way of holding on to the past, fearing memories will disappear if we let go of the objects that trigger them.