The saved icon that lives in the bottom right corner of my screen as I mindlessly scroll through social media platforms has come to haunt me. And the contents of the folders where I save all these things that I plan to get to one day? Utter chaos.
On LinkedIn, there’s hundreds of articles and intelligent commentary from mothers that I wish to interview one day. There’s statistics and quotes and advice on childcare and parenting and career that I think I ought to turn into some form of Instagram content, some form of conversation point.
On Instagram and Substack, there's books that the likes of Pandora Sykes are recommending. I picture myself in an Airbnb in the country reading these books that I never get to, while my kids effortlessly and quietly frolic around me, jumping on me for the odd game of bouncey bouncey and if I'm lucky, a kiss on the lips.
I’m even dressed like her in these micro moments of fantasy. I save her suggestions in the hope that my mind, my wardrobe, and my paid work vocations might mirror hers.
There's restaurants that I might like to try when I'm able to find some more space from my five month old. I imagine myself sitting up at the bar with a friend or my husband, with no one the wiser that I didn’t have to pump or breastfeed to get out the door for the first time in a year. At the dimly lit bar that my mind has conjured, I look chic as f*ck. Not like a mother at all, whatever that means.
It’s ironic, too. Because I’m desperate for her not to grow up. Not yet, Posie. Stay right there please. And despite this desire to keep her close to my chest forever, I feel fantastic when I think of what space her growth will afford me.
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