Same As It Ever Was

by Claire Lombardo

She feels, too, unbelievably tired, stymied by gravity; so much of motherhood has, for her, been this particular feeling, abject disbelief that she’s not only expected but obligated to do one more thing.

Rich people were also, she’d noticed, constantly talking about ways in which they were entitled to bettering themselves.

“Have a good night,” she said, then, again—the curse of contemporary womanhood: this effusive tendency toward both guilt and gratitude—“Thanks, Mark.”

There’s a judgmental little iteration of her psyche who stands on her shoulder sometimes and assigns designations: The Kind of Mother Who (fill in the blank): Reeks of Cigarettes at Preschool Pickup, Is Not Good at Drawing Hearts, Lets Her Kid Eat Funyuns.

Her daughter is piecing together her own interior rule book; this seems as marvelous a development as her learning how to crawl.