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  • Writer's pictureCara Suglich

What am I thinking?

"I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

— Joan Didion


I don't know, guys. This is an experiment. Here, I'm in a lab. A place where I can write about becoming a mom and try to figure out what is happening while it's happening and maybe, like, a little bit after some of it has happened.


The name of this is weird and probably hard to remember because that's what early motherhood feels like to me. Weird and my memory is in watercolors. Like Bob Loblaw's Law Blog and The Rural Juror before this, it's a bunch of sounds that sound a like and kind of make fun of whatever it is we're doing here. Because being human is inherently funny. If God isn't funny, then why farts?


Still, becoming is painful. And, it's punctuated by joyful mysteries. Whether you're a seed becoming a cream-colored peony, only briefly beautiful, or a human becoming forever inhabited by another human, long after they've exited your body or if they never did. Our children live in us for forever. The ones we raise to old age, and the ones we lose. They transform us and burrow deep into our identities.


And so, I find myself at a moment where I need to dig. And find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.


Maybe a series of stories about being a ma on the Southside of Chicago isn't universally connective for you. But maybe becoming is. And maybe sharing what I am figuring my way through will help you figure your way through something, too.



Most of all, this experiment will serve as an archive, a collection of love letters to my son: the meteor of joy that has crashed into our lives and set us on fire. For him, I can do any hard thing. For him, the world is a relentless, irrepressible series of peonies, always blooming, always in June.


My wild little, limitless joy meteor, you are the purest delight.



Love, ma

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