Thank you for reading mom blog, a (usually) twice-monthly newsletter by Olivia Dunn.
A while back, while all of this was still going on, I met a fellow academic at a party. We chatted briefly about our areas of interest, and another person at the table piped up with a friendly plug for my non-academic work, aka, this very Mom Blog.
“Oh,” said the fellow academic, who was not a mom. “How many kids do you have?”
It wasn’t the question I expected to be asked next, but I answered it, automatically.
“One,” I said.
“One,” she said. “Is that considered enough to write a mom blog?”
I guess I know what she was getting at: the idea of a “mom blog,” the name of this very newsletter created in haste and jest. Of course I, too, was referencing that portal to the unimaginable world of Pure Mom Life: Ballerina Farm and her unceasing production (of children, of butter); the Duggars… Octo-mom… women whose children function as massive battery cells, fueling their online existence.
It was a thoughtless comment, of course, the kind that women are so often asked. Think of the classic cultural moment: the interviewer asks the actress, not, “what did you do to prepare for the role of arctic explorer,” but instead “who is watching your kids while you’re shooting on location in the North Pole?” As though the only thing that matters, about an artist, is what happened, rather than what she made of it.
One child. I am also an only child. My mother has one sister, who has one son, who has one son. The women on my mother’s side, lately, it seems, have one child. The story I received about this was: one is enough. One was more than enough, in fact, and after a difficult birth, and a dark postpartum, my mother was finished. I was somehow more than she could handle and a gift of total abundance: special enough that there need not be more.
In my later years, I’d often blame my own problems and idiosyncracies on this origin story. Conflict avoidance, anxiety, loneliness—I was sure these were the results of my unusual, only-child, upbringing—alone in the house with adults. My therapist assures me that these issues stem from other, specific factors; that my own daughter won’t necessarily end up the same way. It’s not as simple as: a sibling would have changed my whole childhood. It’s not just one more baby that will make or break my child’s future mental health.
Lately, dealing with the prolonged illness of my mother, the idea of the imaginary sister or brother remains a narcotic fantasy. I know there’s no guarantee that this imaginary person would be useful, practical, or supportive; that they would be local, or available, or even able to make a decent pot of soup. They might have six kids of their own, unable to help with hospital visits or babysitting. I imagine what it would be like, though, to share the burden of my grief, rather than hold it all alone, teeth gritted and face to the side, crying through another episode of Bluey.
With all this going on, it is more than enough to raise one child. I tell myself this. Is there not something almost glamorous about one? Portable, like a very small purse? Less chaos? More room in the backseat? Only one journey through the dark forest of potty training? There is, I tell myself, something glimmering and magical about one, a universe unto themselves, performing childhood to an audience of only adults, who gaze on with replete adoration.
I look at other mothers-of-one and wonder: are they satisfied? Complete? Are their basements organized? Do they have their eyes set on a future, of completed work projects, international flights, and savings accounts? Or do they go to sleep each night and wake up again, roiling and longing in the dark, like I do?
This past month marks four years of Mom Blog. Four years of content I was able to generate even though I am only the mother of one child. I missed the anniversary last month for reasons I will get into shortly. So here I go: below this image I am going to talk about pregnancy loss. Please skip this if you aren’t in a place to receive it. I have un-paywalled the archives on some past favorites for you to peruse instead—go back in time, revel in Mom Blog’s long history, and skip the rest of this essay. I love you.
“On Boredom” - wherein I discuss the different flavors of boredom someone might feel while at home with a very young child
“On Ungratefulness” - wherein I discuss how much I hated our trip to Lake George last year
“On Ambition” - wherein I discuss an episode of Queer Eye, and somehow tie in Emily Dickinson (this one just made me cackle out loud, rereading it, even though I am in a pretty bad place)
“On Feeling Like a Real Mom” - wherein I discuss all the ways I (and other parents) have felt that undeniable flash of reality: we are doing this!
When I started Mom Blog, parenthood had overwhelmed me completely. It does that, naturally, but as many of you recall, Rosalind was born in March of 2020, into a world where Covid still meant spraying bleach onto your utility bills, wearing a bandana around your face like a cowboy bandit, and the desperate, cloying optimism of “maybe just a few more weeks.” By month six of the pandemic, I needed a way out, even if it was just through the computer. This blog became a lifeline for me. I couldn’t see my friends, but I could write to them, make new ones, and stay connected. An only child’s superpower: surrounding herself with others. An only child’s dream: our life, alone in this house, witnessed by others, if just via Substack.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to try again, as they say, that horrible little verb, that terrible little euphemism. But as the world opened back up, so did we. The idea of changing everything felt manageable. Another child. A story for another time, that breach into madness, off the cliff, powerless and begging as the months sped by. Disappointment so brutal it cracks you in two. And then: two pregnancies. And then: two miscarriages.
A story for another time, too: that word and how it sounds like a rusted pipe falling off the bottom of a car. The way “we” “don’t” talk about any of this. And I don’t want to either, not really. But I do want to write about it here. A little bit.
These last weeks, awake during those spinning out hours that happen anytime after midnight, I’ve been working on this essay in my head. It gives me comfort, to impose some paragraph-order on the chaos of our grief. It’s better than wondering what’s next, or what I did wrong, or what if this never works out. Imagining my life back to where it was again, one perfect, glittering handbag. It’s better than worrying about my mom, back at the hospital again. It’s better than missing her, my mother, the ultimate witness to my life, who because of her illness, can’t really understand or remember what’s going on with me. What was offered, and what was taken away.
Not all the paragraphs I wrote in my head landed here, in this essay, but it helps to have crafted them anyway. It helps to imagine you, imaginary and beloved reader, or real life and dear friend reader, witnessing me. The paragraph that remains is just this: another bad ultrasound, another dark room, another silent doctor, another agonizing wait. A second d&c, waiting to be scheduled. This time: daycare closed, camp over, babysitter ill, my parents—in their own, difficult and endless situation. It felt like the pandemic again. We were panicked, feeling adrift and alone.
With skill I believe a Hollywood producer would remark upon, I made not one, not two, but three (and a half) contigency plans for childcare, for each day of the week and time frame the procedure might be scheduled for. That only child superpower: friends. That pandemic muscle, flexing. In the end, Rosalind had a bright and sunny morning at a friend’s house, eating buttered noodles and watching Work It Out Wombats! In the end, I had Jimmy with me while I woke up, numb and exhausted and delirious and hungry and safe. Alone together, briefly.
Luckily, I am still numb. My body is protecting me until it can’t anymore, and the floods will open, like they did the first time, or maybe worse. Probably worse. I don’t know how I’ll feel in October. I don’t know how I’ll feel in April. I think, or rather I know, that these losses will never leave me. I don’t know what that looks like, but then, no one knows what’s coming next. I know that for sure.
Grief reflects. The worst thing in all of this, right now anyway, is how it catches and lights up what else I’m missing. Four years ago I was writing for the most basic reasons: I am a writer, I was bored, I didn’t want to make sourdough bread, I wanted someone to pay attention to me and my perfect plump brand new baby. Looking back, I realize that four years ago was also when—almost imperceptibly—we started to lose my mom. We knew her body was failing but what we didn’t quite notice was how her attention wandered. Her memory slipped. Her language was starting to dissolve, exposing little glimmers of the memory loss that would eventually shatter into a more full blown dementia. My mother, to whom I reported everything. My mother, who loved to witness me, who reveled in me in a way I can only truly understand now: the absolute fucking miracle of a child, one child, in all her unbelievable glory. Of course, I realized. I’ve been writing to her this whole time.
So, my anniversary declaration: one child is enough to write Mom Blog. Loss is enough to write Mom Blog. Mom as in: listen to me. Mom as in: witness this. Mom as in: the patient work of trying to understand life, even when it feels senseless. Mom as in: we don’t know what’s coming next, but I’m still here, whatever that looks like. Mom as in: not alone.
Thank you for reading. I love you. There will be no podcast this week, but there usually is, when things are more… usual. I look forward to that time. If you are going through anything similar and want to reach out, I am here. Just reply to this email.
I hope you sleep all night long,
xo,
Olivia
Love you, friend. I wish I could wash your pain away. Thank you for you making your art and sharing it with us. I can't imagine my mom life without you!
Sending you SO MUCH love. You, an “only one” and mom to an “only one” are so incredibly special - I can’t imagine it any other way. Thank you for being so brave and sharing your intimate stories with us - we all need to hear them. ♥️♥️♥️