Motherhood is such a messy tangle of love, exhaustion and anxiety. We are tethered to these tiny human beings by a cord for nine months, then bound infinitely after that. All their hopes, desires and dreams become your main focus; fulfilling them becomes life.

I love berries. They’re my favorite food I think, and have been since I was a child. We were poor growing up after my parents divorced, so fruit was more luxury than necessity. My Mother always bought apples- Macintosh apples by the bag to be precise, because they were cheapest. But every once in a while she would bring a pint of berries home; strawberries or blueberries mostly, and I would think they were tiny pieces of heaven.

Is there anything more flavorful than a ripe, juicy strawberry in the summertime?? We three small, growing humans could make the crates of fruit disappear in one sitting. My poor Mother who couldn’t afford the luxurious items but every so often, would see that pint go in minutes; long before she had the chance to taste even one. Divided among three there aren’t many berries to be had per container anyway, but for them to scarcely make from paper bag to fridge before they disappeared is another thing entirely.

Now fully grown and a Mother myself, I wonder what went on in her mind during those moments; or the frozen winter nights bundled up in sweatshirts, coats and quilts to keep out the cold. Or the school years we spent with our knee torn jeans and inside out tee shirts so we could make it through the week without wearing the same outfit twice. It was hard on us, hard to fit in and hard to feel comfortable. We three joke about it sometimes with a detached but cheerful manner, though the sting is still hidden someplace deep; you can’t vault everything forever. Yet I think, no matter how difficult it was for us as children, as a Mother I cannot imagine how terrible it was for her; working full time at a difficult job, run by difficult people where she received minimum pay for difficult work. Exhausted she would crawl home to three rambunctious children who had homework to finish, supper to eat and bed to be forced into, only to wake and repeat for eternity.

So it was babysitters and ramen noodles, powdered milk, Spam, peanut butter and Macintosh apples by the bag because they were cheapest.

I don’t like Macintosh apples anymore. I like apples just fine, but the skin on those seem tough and sour tasting. My mouth puckers unpleasantly even at the thought of them. I think the taste reminds me of the hard times- the times I’ve vaulted; the hungry times, where all my tiny but ungrateful belly wanted was a strawberry. Yet all we had were Macintosh apples from a bag because of three hungry children.

There are two containers of berries in my kitchen at the moment; subconsciously or not it’s almost an automatic purchase. We have bananas too, even blackberries and apples of the Granny Smith kind.

It can’t rain all the time.