A Confused Mother, and a Moroccan Lamb

I am afraid this post will be even less ambitious than the unambitious plan that half-formed in my brain over the weekend. I thought I would simply write about where I am these days with this site, which I have kept mostly confidential so far. I thought I was going through a breakthrough of sorts, where I would finally publicize this blog via Instagram, and, heck, maybe publish my posts on Substack?!? I would write about feeling the need to get out of my shell, while also feeling quite confused about the purpose of this blog. Should it keep being about cooking as well as motherhood? Should I just stick to the non-recipe part of this endeavor? Truth be told, I do not enjoy copying recipes that much. Cooking only interests me in as much as it is intertwined with my life as a mother of four and gives structure to my days, often echoing what goes on in my home, and in my mind. But I certainly do not think of myself as a chef, or a recipe creator, or even a real food writer.

            What am I doing, then? I am not sure. Nor do I know whether and how I will eventually incorporate my recent training as a coach into this website. As a former academic, I still struggle with this aspect of my activity. And when I am not writing these pages, my mind is a jumble of half-formed and contradictory projects and visions for myself. It is not pretty in there, let me tell you. Which might be why I am still hesitant to share this blog more widely. I keep hoping that somehow the moment will come when I know exactly what I am doing, where I am doing. When all the different jobs I have held and the mismatched occupations I have been committed to, will come together to form a coherent ensemble.

            That time has NOT come yet, and I am beginning to realize that maybe it never will. That there is nothing more I can do for now, than show up on my blank page once a week and see what happens. Today I certainly do not have anything more to offer. For a few weeks now, since I came back from my trip to France in April, I have been struggling with debilitating anxiety attacks that usually show up on the weekend, when, I guess, I find myself overwhelmed with the demands of family life. I have established a solid routine during the week, including a writing routine, which is a first for me. And I am grateful that I somehow found that strength, after believing for decades that I would never be a schedule person, and that the combination of motherhood and the Internet, had killed my concentration for good. The only trouble is, I am having a very hard time managing the days when my routine is gone and my day needs to be organized around my children’s soccer games, swim lessons, and birthday party invitations. At least, that is how I interpret the recurrence of my weekend panic attacks. I found myself on such unsteady ground after moving back to New York last summer. My routine holds me together to a point, but sometimes the uncertainty around our family’s future becomes all-consuming. This weekend I was shaking with fear over my sixteen-year-old upcoming French baccalaureate exam, after believing, all year-long, that I had finally overcome my anxiety around his schooling and academic results. A primal fear just took hold, that he would fail his exam, and probably failed his AP’s as well, and would not be able to go to a college he likes. And what will college life even be, in the United States, a year and a half from now? Reading the news certainly doesn’t help feeling confident and secure in a young person’s future these days.       

            So, there you have it, an anxious mess of a mother, and the novelty, for me, of these bouts of seemingly unmanageable panic. Yes, I do breathe, and meditate, and try to gently change my thoughts. But the truth is, only time does the job, and the only thing that works is wait for the next day.         

            Not much by way of cooking in these circumstances. Although the cold, rainy weather made this easy lamb tajine a perfectly suitable meal the other night. As is often the case when I look for dinner inspiration, it was just the first page that popped up on my Google search, and made absent-mindedly while the boys kept throwing a tennis ball around the kitchen, taking advantage of my post-panic state, I guess. But my nine-year-old boy devoured it and asked me to make it every week. Small accomplishments, small pleasures. Small ways to feel anchored when the fear takes over. This is all I can really aim for these days.