The Woman I Used to Be

Sometimes, when I’m up in the middle of the night, giving one of my sons Children’s Motrin, or when I’m wiping their butts, or assembling the thousandth PB&J, I think of the woman I used to be. 

It’s a stretch for me, so immersed in motherhood, to acknowledge the Mindy before kids. 

Before I started bringing up the latest generation of my family, I had a different family.  It was a group of creative people, of grips and DP’s, directors, actors, and producers.  As an independent filmmaker, I lived in Los Angeles, among many types of would-be stars.  The majority were single-minded, egocentric opportunists, all trying to bust into the entertainment industry.  It was an existence that ran counter to anything remotely nurturing or motherly. 

Prior to my foray into film, I played keyboards and sang backup in a touring rock band.  For eight years, I wrote, recorded, and performed with this very different kind of family.  The band, 40^th Day, was a democracy, but the heart of the family was the music itself.  There was something otherworldly about living to be creative.  It was almost like “real life” was suspended, and now as I look back at old CDs and videos we made, they seem like vestiges of a young adulthood long gone. 

When I was part of the creative world, life was one-dimensional, focused solely on the dissemination of art.

As a stay-at-home parent, my life now is solely focused on the creation and distribution of people.  Like art, it has my full attention now.  This week, my entire creative brain is dedicated to making sure Ethan is placed in the right kindergarten class, and teaching Alex to blow his own nose.

After twenty years of being an artist, I do long for those all-night band practices, when the outré finally gets nailed down.  Sometimes I pine for those day-long scriptwriting sessions, talking to myself in different voices just to make the dialogue pop.  Amidst the existential ennui that accompanies parenthood, I find I want to perform again.

Don’t get me wrong.  I do ham it up with my kids.  It takes a certain artistry to concoct a bedtime story where Prince Alex can’t ride his dragon because he’s soiled his royal armor.  And banging out Ethan’s favorite Arcade Fire song on the piano’s always fun, too … especially when I’ve only heard it once.

While I do sometimes wish I could be onstage or in the editing suite, I still get a jolt from being the mother of sons.  When Ethan rode his bike for the first time without training wheels, I cried longer and harder that I did when I found out my band was opening for The Smashing Pumpkins.  When Alex finally ditches his nighttime diaper, I’ll feel like we just wrapped picture. 

The woman I used to be and the woman I am will be equally proud.

By Mindy Urhlaub