One moment I am devouring my kids, dumbfounded by their brilliance and my insatiable need to snuggle them into oblivion. 

The next, motherhood devours me whole —  then spits me out, bitter to the taste. 

When we had our third daughter, Mara, we were living in a tiny Airbnb. The railroad tracks ran just to our east and the Pacific Ocean was a stone’s throw to the west. Every night around 10pm the old bones from our 50’s cottage would tremble as the train raced by. 

I would close my eyes and imagine I was living in New York City; specifically the vibrant neighborhood of Harlem. Probably near something called the L train (don’t quote me). An entire life outside, vibrant and awake, a city humming in perfect chaos and continuity. Every cuisine from around the world is right at my doorstep. I am both never alone and perfectly anonymous. I am an artist living in a tiny loft (it’s all I can afford) in a state of uninterrupted creativity.  I mosey about like a local and come home to my cat (I don’t even like cats).

A world apart from mine, but a part of me. Or maybe in some version of this life, it was me. 

However, if I’m living in a parallel universe somewhere, I know that I’m always longing for the tethers and love of this one.