Maiden, Mother, Bitch

How does one embrace aging in a culture obsessed with youth, fertility, and all things supple?

Last August, my daughters and I were waiting in line for the restroom at a hot springs, and my eavesdropping habit led me down a rabbit hole of bitchiness, pettiness, envy, and ultimately, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, a bit of a transformation.

I am 44 years old, and while I mostly still feel like the same person I was when I was in my 20s, I’m acutely aware of where I am in life—if I’m lucky, in the middle. Aging, motherhood, vanity, and fertility make for an uncomfortable cocktail for this feminist, and the piece I am sharing today exposes a lot of my raw edges. I’m so honored to have this piece—Maiden, Mother, Bitch—up on Mutha Magazine this week. It’s a play on the mythical life stages of womanhood as encapsulated by the Triple Goddess (if you’re less woo than I am, go on ahead and look that up), and it’s also an exploration of my own transition through these life stages. Spoiler alert: I have actually landed at a place where I feel pretty grateful for the life stage I’m currently inhabiting, and this piece, which ironically gestated for nine actual months before being published, was instrumental in getting me to that place.

So without further ado, here is this wildly vulnerable piece I am both proud and terrified to share:

“The bathroom line was predictably long. My daughters and I stood clutching our swimsuits, sandwiched by eager patrons of the off-the-beaten-path hot springs. While we waited, we did what we did best: eavesdrop. 

It wasn’t hard—one of the two twenty-something women behind us was carrying on as though she possessed the stage at open mic night. 

“I’ll have to make sure you get a chance to feel it once the rolling starts,” she announced, clutching her small second trimester bump. “It moves across your whole belly like a wave,” she patiently explained to her companion, to whom I had deftly assigned the role of second-fiddle sorority sister.

My toes clenched as her unsolicited tutelage continued. The developing fetus can actually hear!—“…and so it’s really important to play music to them, but there are actually different kinds of sounds that…” 

Ah, the bluster and bravado of a first-time mother-to-be.

My teenager picked up on my irritation, as I was practically telecasting my “Can you believe this shit?” silent commentary. “Can you read my mind?” I pointedly asked my oldest, a signal we had perfected to convey chagrin or mirth when verbal expression was gauche.  

She rolled her eyes and mimed picking up a telephone. “Hello? Satan? It’s for you,” she deadpanned, handing me the invisible phone. 

Keep reading here.

Catch up on the latest episodes of the Mother Plus Podcast here, including our recent “Oh shit, it’s summer vacation!” survival guide.