There is a belief in the world of psychoanalysis that a pregnant woman cannot be psychoanalyzed.


The fact of being physically merged with a baby, some have said, empties the maternal mind of its ability to examine and effect change in its contents.


I used to get feministically ragey on that prejudice.


But today I am wondering about how much access do I have to writing, to creating characters, remembering details, and painting a visual picture.


How much can a mother do that while her kid is napping?


Wait, is that her? Do I not get to finish even this?


How much of our mama brain is ours and internally free to wander while we try to sing our song and voice our particular story?


How much of me is taken up in crouching, waiting for the interruption or the remembered phone call I HAVE to make while she's out?

We need so much to have a place where we are subjective, messy, passionate creatures, beholden to no one, freely longing and growing.

Today's answer: Well, at least I can try to write a blog. . .

Oy, she's up!


By Avvy Mar

Labels: Avvy Mar

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