Posts in Motherhood
Filling the Emptiness
Filling the Emptiness

My two young children, clad in neon swimsuits, danced around impatiently in the backyard, checking on the progress every now and then.  Our new inflatable pool—turquoise and gray with an attached blow-up slide—was being filled with the garden hose; it was taking forever for any noticeable progress.  It was mid-June and the Wisconsin weather was in the low 70’s; I wasn’t about to tell my kids that even when the pool had filled to an acceptable volume, the sun still had to heat the water, cold and sputtering from the spigot, and that it was likely to take days, not hours. 

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumFeminist, mother, Motherhood, parent, wisconsin, childrenComment
Learning Trust, In Lyric
Learning Trust, In Lyric

Suspended above the Delaware River, I can no longer time my contractions. The fierce waves of pain sweep up my facility to do anything but breathe. Breathe I do, with an equally fierce grip on the vinyl door handle of my husband’s pickup truck—never more thankful for its heated leather seats. As my insides constrict, my fingers squeeze the handle tighter. When my muscles release their grip, I release mine, measuring my breath with a will resolute.

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Trust, Children, Parenting, ChoicesComment
Stolen or Saved
Stolen or Saved

We didn’t know the beauty we would find there. It wasn’t an obvious dazzling beauty. It needed to be unearthed, searched for. Our clothes stuck to us as we ambled off the plane. The heat and strong odors of others, of ourselves, pressed in on us. We cranked our windows down in the taxi as broken Soviet buildings rushed by. Their gray concrete stark against the sharp neon green of the trees and grass.

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Strong Women, adoption, Mother's love, Feminist, Travel Comments
Maiden, Mother, Crone
Maiden, Mother, Crone

My dear friend is a crone. Not an ugly, withered woman. No, she entered cronehood with ample wisdom, dignity, and poise. She entered cronehood with a croning, a sacred, near metaphysical ritual where a small group of women honor the crone and her journey. “But it’s also very much about sharing your knowledge and wisdom with other women,” the invite read. 

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MotherhoodJulia Nusbaummotherhood, creative nonfiction, CNF, Women's stories, Feminist, MotherComment
Am I Still Your Mother
Am I Still Your Mother

When my daughter was born, I was worried that I wouldn’t be the one she would call out for in the middle of the night.

Josh brings her warm, tear-soaked body into our king-sized bed – all 29 pounds of my two- and-a-half-year-old. The bed is already fully occupied. Me, Josh and my almost four-year-old son, Miles, sprawled out as if he was attempting to make snow angels in his sleep. But I still welcome Lyla with outstretched arms.

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MotherhoodJulia Nusbaummotherhood, mothers, cancer, breast cancer, creative nonfiction, women writers, Feminist, mother daughter, Personal Essay Comments
Times Square
Times Square

I was next to my father in the back of a police cruiser as the resentment towards my mother grew. I was six months pregnant and when I realized that the door locked from the outside, echoes of my doctor’s voice flooded me. You have to remain calm when you’re pregnant, eat well, play music for your baby to hear in the womb. They internalize your emotions in utero and can be traumatized before they are even born. I tried to breathe as I looked ahead through the grates that divided me from the backs of the policemen’s balding heads and put a hand on my hard misshapen stomach as I rolled my window down the two inches that it allowed.

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MotherhoodKristina Buschalcoholism, Mother daughter, Motherhood, familyComment
Good Enough Mother
Good Enough Mother

It’s been a long time since I have been a good mother. It is 7:25 am and my son is laying in front of the pantry, his face pressed into the crumbs, dust, and dog hair of the kitchen floor. His six-year-old body long and thin, splayed in a scissor-like pose, his hair, tangled blond snarls. He is banging one leg theatrically against the floor, telling me or the floorboards that he wants the granola with no nuts.

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MotherhoodKristina Buschmotherhood, ment, Anger Comment
The First Year
The First Year

The first time I sat in the waiting room, I faced a wall full of Christmas cards and birth announcements.

The second time I sat in the waiting room, Chris sat next to me, reading a book I bought him, which exclaimed in bold letters on the front, “We’re pregnant!” I held a clipboard and grilled him about his family’s medical history. When the doctor turned the monitor screen to face us, Chris couldn’t help but move closer, wanting to get as good a look at our little gummy bear as possible. But he didn’t let go of my hand, and for the first time he was pulled between me and our child.

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MotherhoodKristina BuschMotherhood, Growing up, pregnancy Comments
The Yarn is the Same
The Yarn is the Same

(Sometimes I forget).

I have a body. I remind myself stretching, the pops releasing my back before climbing into bed. I roll my wrists, tiny muscles spent from crocheting. We’re working on our relationship, my body and me. I’m working to listen better; my body, in turn, agrees to shout less. I’m trying to forgive the things it will not do, the question mark of grief that whispers, “I can’t.”

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MotherhoodKristina Buschmiscarriage, Infertility, Motherhood Comments
The Love You Can't Give
The Love You Can't Give

“If that’s what you’ve decided to do, then go do it. But if you leave, you better know you can’t come back.”

I sat on the edge of the dining room chair as my mother stood over me, gripping the remote control in her hand, eyes blazing.

“I’m only moving to Astoria,” I said. Although my words came out smoothly, glibly even, my stomach turned over in knots.

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Adoption, Older Mother, lebanese, mother and daughter Comment