identity crisis

I had a relapse of mommy identity crisis yesterday. I thought this phase was over. It certainly happened frequently the first six months or so. Things I used to like to do seemed silly; my priorities seemed to shift so intensely that I couldn't really remember who I was without the context of Eliana. Right around my birthday (March), I started to come back into my own. I wanted to go out with my girlfriends. I wanted to hike without her always attached to my chest. I didn't constantly check the phone to see if she was okay. I knew she was fine without me. I needed space and time to myself. I had made that separation and could be myself without her.

Yesterday I woke up in a foul mood. I had agreed to dance in a little local fashion show to help out a friend. I worked hard to learn the choreography last minute and knew, from the beginning, that I wasn't feeling it. Then I was given the outfit that I would be performing in. Green leggings and a black tee-shirt that said in multi-colored, fluorescent, "Frankie Goes to Hollywood"-style all caps, "Check Yourself." I hate leggings. Always have. Hated them when I was nine and they were hip, hate them now. I guess they could be hot if you don't have the special place between your booty and your thigh, that special little love bump that, regardless of your fitness level or strength, is always hanging on. But I do. And I hated my outfit. The body that I'm finally feeling good about inhabiting again felt ridiculous in this get up.

I should have quit right then and there in the store. I should have put up more of a fuss. My face fell when I saw myself in the mirror. Was I really going to do some pseudo hip-hop routine to Senegalese rap in this hideous flashback outfit in front of a rowdy summer crowd, no doubt filled with people I know? But the store owner wouldn't let me change the bottoms, told me I looked hot and I had to flaunt my "post baby body." Good God.

So then we were supposed to meet early to rehearse at the studio, but the studio was locked. And then we were supposed to be dancing on a 20 by 20 stage, but when we got there, it was a tiny square in the middle of the street. Okay. Things were not helping me get a hold of my rather juvenile mood. I felt pissy and pouty. I wanted to use the words "lame" and "sucks" a lot. I was tempted to feign an ankle twist. Or just bail the fuck out.

But didn't I love performing? Don't I just love to dance? Wouldn't it be great to get my freak on in front of my small community, in fact, many small, lovely children that I teach to read would get to see that not only am I good at spelling and similes, I'm also quite excellent at shakin' my thang. Again, Good God.

So I did it. And I nailed the moves in my new, much more rooted, grounded style. And it was fine. But I still wasn't. I didn't get the performance high. I felt self-conscious and old and ridiculous and after the show, all I wanted to do was get my hands on Eliana and get the heck outta there. I didn't want to chit chat. I didn't want anyone to see me who might comment on the performance. I wanted to cry. And hide. What was going on?

I talked to my friend Melissa today about my little performance issue. The bad mood. The lack of desire to be public. I told her I felt like I was having an identity crisis and why was this happening when I'm now so good at leaving Elie and doing lots and lots of things that I used to enjoy? Social worker (and fellow dancer) that she is, broke it down. She reminded me of how emotional I was with Eliana's birthday just a mere few days prior. She told me that it was totally natural not to want to perform something that didn't resonate with me in a deep way. She reminded me that I am a mama and an artist now. That those two identities are irrevocably intertwined.

I sort of feel like a diva, but if I am going to perform at this point in my life, I want it to be incredible. I want lights. I want to be wearing a gorgeous, flowing dress. I want to perform choreography that is rooted and heavy with emotion and love and power. I want to be deep and dazzling and strong. I don't have flippant in me any more. I don't have "just moves." I still have soul. I still have groove. But it all feels so damn serious and important and huge and I can't separate that grandeur from the art. I can't just put on some ridiculous outfit and bust it because it's fun.

Do I sound like I take myself super seriously? I probably do. I guess that's because when you do something as serious and relevant and real and powerful as become a mama, it's hard not to let that sense of importance plant it's seed somewhere deep inside you. Little blossoms twist on teeny vines that run through your being, constantly reminding you of how you've changed. Transformation is happening. That new self, that mama me, is always there, always evolving, always resonating and permeating everything I do. And this mama did not feel right publicly "checking herself" on a flimsy stage. And that's just how it is.