Am I really Medea, sorceress of Greek and Roman myth, who sacrificed her children for revenge? Or will I be the mother who sacrifices everything for her children?
Lindsey DeLoach Jones
I grew strong. And yet I couldn’t outrun motherhood or age or the life that threatened to swallow me up with its lists and its human alarm clocks and its feeding schedule.
Sarah E. Tillman
Even though you are almost seventeen and not a baby, I have to get up and go over to you to touch you and make sure you have not disappeared into the sky.
But I am her mother and because there is no one to take my place I cannot collapse under the crush of these early months. I can’t crash the car, or fail. I just need to be here.
I pictured my palm opening to reveal a tuft of hair, a purple ribbon. He’s right here.
Then came the day that my husband found me sitting in the garden. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, dirt beneath my finger nails, I was biting into a large ripe tomato with the baby latched onto my left breast. The perfect food chain.
We publish thoughtful pieces that take the experience of motherhood and use it as a jumping off point for exploring deeper issues of identity, relationship, family, politics, transformation, loss, and more. Have you written a compelling narrative with a fresh take on a common experience? Read more about submitting your work here.
Creative Nonfiction Archives