“Life is amazing, and then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful, it’s ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life.” – LR Knost.

I had a plan to write about my ebbs and flows.

I was going to write about the idea that motherhood should come with a disclaimer: have your justifications ready to go. You don’t need to be a mentalist to read the signs and suggestions; “He still sleeps in your room? He’s how old again…”

I was going to write about my body guilt. How my efforts in getting back into “shape” only acted as further punishment to my already failing conceptions of motherhood. I was going to share my monthly photos of self-loathing after every failed exercise venture. As mothers alike have suggested: ‘what’s my excuse?”

I was going to write about my muscle separation and weakened pelvic floor. Oh, the funnies I could get out of that one. Riveting…

I was going to write about sugar. Oh, and vaccines. That would be sure to get the pot stirring.

I was going to write about my newfound understanding about the ‘club’. You know, the stuff you only realise once you’re in the club. No matter how hard you try to deny it or fight it, some things you’ll only understand once you’re in it.

I was going to write about how I now smile at those expecting mothers with their grand plans. If only they really knew. How all I can do is just smile and nod. How I silently say a prayer each time hoping that they’ll be ok.

I was going to write about how I can see my old child-free self in so many other women, their cynicism and judgement. How ugly it is.

I was going to write about the extreme competitiveness and one-upmanship within the club. How ugly that is.

I was going to write about the fear that my son may think that his own name was “mum” by the amount of times I’d tried to get him to say it. (He did say ‘mum’ first, mind you.)

I was going to write about how his little mind must view me behind the case of my iPhone. How he’ll think the little black box is a permanent extension of his mum and dad. How much I wish I watched him instead of the clock or held him instead of my phone.

I was going to write about how our access to technology has made us mindless. How studies have linked technology use with depression and mental health. How desperately people are looking to escape. How our mindless scrolling could be adding to our emptiness.

I had boundless ideas to write about the many lessons on this mummy wagon: The endless ebbs and flows, the awful, mundane, glorious, heart-wrenching, and breath-taking moments. But… I’m tired. Writing has become a chore. I feel it’s a punishment. Something that was once a release has become a burden. I guess these are the ebbs and flows of living. The world constantly echoes to us words of discouragement. Its flattery is tasteless and hollow. It wants to keep us voiceless while exacerbating the empty chatter. It wants to tell us that our contributions are invalid, no, more than that… deficient. It doesn’t applaud when we win, but don’t be fooled, it’s certainly taking notes. Maybe the times when we really don’t feel like it are the precise moments when we actually should. When there’s no peace yet to stop, keeping going.

… and so, I wrote.

“Don’t punish yourself’, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness. That was writing.” – Markus Zusak: The Book Thief