Enduring - Issue No. 18
IF TRUMP WERE A MOTHER
2025 is here, and somehow it already feels like it has been 327 days long. Our country is on fire, and we’ve ushered in a President who seems to be working on burning it the rest of the way down. As we witness the end of democracy as we know it, I can’t help but think how different everything would be if Trump were a mother.
If Donald Trump were a mother, he wouldn’t have time for his spray tan. He’d pull up his yoga pants, put his hair in a messy bun, and clean up messes instead of making them. While he could find two pouches and a pack of wet wipes, he would be unable to locate his “executive order” pen to sign any more disasters into effect. And, nobody would take a pink marker signature seriously anyway. He would know that he couldn’t pick favorites, that it’s unwise to make big decisions when you’re in the middle of big feelings, and that you can’t cook a feast and only invite the fullest bellies. He would say things like “tell me more” and “how did that make you feel?” and “do you think maybe we should take a deep breath and have a snack before we figure out what we do next?”
If Trump were a mother, he would know that No means No the first time, and that no amount of litigating or money can change that. He would have practiced using his ignore muscle, and the lesson learned from January 6th would be that it is okay to be angry but it is not okay to hurt other people because you are angry. He would make it clear that his job is not providing tax breaks to billionaires, eliminating access to gender affirming care, or reducing grants for medical research, but rather doing everything in his power to keep everyone safe while creating a home in which each individual has the opportunity to thrive. He would understand that even if he deeply desires to take over Gaza or the Panama Canal or Greenland, just because you want something, doesn’t mean you can snatch it from someone else. If Trump were a mother, he would tell Elon that while he appreciates him being a helper, there is nothing efficient about shutting down USAID, overtaking Treasury, or wiping out DEI practices. Because, it is never okay to knock down someone’s block tower, or scribble over someone else’s picture, or put your butthole on your brother.
If Trump were a mother, he’d be more focused on happiness and less focused on pronouns. He’d know his job is to hold people up, not hold them back. He’d put less energy into securing borders and more into preserving our planet because, as a mother, he’d feel the weight of building the world our children deserve.
If Trump were a mother, he would know that a woman’s body was among the most powerful and capable things we will ever have contact with on this earth, and that it should be venerated and trusted. He would know that since the beginning of time women have been tasked with the godly gift of bringing life into the world, and that there is no one more qualified than them to make the right decisions for their bodies. If Trump were a mother, he would handle things with finesse instead of fists. He would bring a selfless resiliency to his work and he would prioritize compassion, community and care. He would know that the real problem for mothers is that the deck is stacked against them, and that until there are family-friendly workplaces, affordable childcare and healthcare, nationwide access to quality education, and trust in the capabilities of women, we will not be able to show how different this world could be. He would understand how scary it is to have someone like him in power. If Trump were a mother, he’d know that in order to really Make America Great Again, we need women at the helm.
THE EXISTENTIAL DILEMMA OF WHY ONE HIKES
When I was in my yoga teacher training program in my late 20s, my instructor asked all of us to go on a “mung bean fast.” He said that for a minimum of 24 hours and a maximum of a week he wanted us to eat nothing but mung beans. The absurdity of this didn’t land completely with me at the time, which is, in retrospect, why cults exist. Similar to agreeing to only wear orange or move to a compound in Waco, despite some apprehension, I complied and went 24 hours eating only mung beans. While smashing them up for breakfast on the second day, I had an existential “why am I eating mung beans?” moment, dropped the green mush into the trash, and grabbed some Cheerios. We all have these moments of pause in adulthood – from running marathons to writing dissertations, from working more while playing less to having children. Despite our beloved offspring, our medals, our pride and egos, there are moments when it feels like the question begging to be asked is “why are we all doing this to ourselves?” Which brings me to my honeymoon.
For our honeymoon, my husband and I, who had summited Mount Kilimanjaro one year prior, decided to go on a Peruvian hiking adventure to Machu Picchu. Here’s what we knew: we would hike along Ancascocha trail, which National Geographic had ranked as one of the world's best hikes. We would pass ancient Incan ruins, traditional Andean villages, and shepherds tending to their livestock. On paper, our trip sounded like a dream. But then, after a successful first day of hiking lush green hills in one of the most remote settings I had ever experienced, my husband started to suffer the effects of terrible altitude sickness. During a time that is otherwise known for uninterrupted, romantic togetherness, he spent the night pooping in his pants while vomiting - all in a tent next to his new wife. We woke up the next morning in a valley between two mountains, 8 miles and zero roads from civilization. We were fluctuating between worrying that my husband was dying and questioning why anyone ever hikes like this to begin with. Our guide explained that the options were to hike another 10 miles to the next spot where we could get picked up, to stop our journey and hike back 8 miles, to have my 6’4” husband mount one of their frail, underfed horses and attempt to ride it, or to get medevaced out.
It was then that I noticed that our horses were missing from our camp because they had run away in the night, likely back to their home near the start of our journey. The missing horses, in retrospect, clearly were a portent of the day that was to come. We layered on our ponchos and our packs, someone brought the horses back to carry our camping gear, and we all began trudging through weather that fluctuated between rain and snow. My husband was a shell of the man I had married one week prior. A few hours into our hike, our guide got word on a walkie talkie that there had been a landslide that rendered the trail in front of us unusable and had killed one of the horses in another group. He explained that we would have to take a detour off the trail. And those were the final moments before we got lost in the stunning landscape of the Andes.
Near nightfall, after a full day of hiking, we crossed a body of water and headed into a jungle landscape. Three women in traditional Peruvian outfits approached us with lanterns to find out why we were hiking after nightfall off of any tourist trail. After speaking to them, our guide told us he had found a place for us to stay the night. Soon after, we were in someone’s backyard, tents assembled, prying off our hiking boots that had been thoroughly caked with mud. Our phones told us we hiked 26 miles through the mountains that day. We arrived in Machu Picchu the following day, which did not disappoint in its majestic otherworldliness.
The nightmare honeymoon hike has become a flagship story in our arsenal of travel tales. It also has become a metaphor for the hard things we put ourselves through of our own volition. With no roadmap we proceed, even when the honeymoon of it all feels so far from reality. We endure, temper, assess, existentially theorize, and then find the next endeavor. It feels flawed, innately human, and baked into the role of parent to continue signing up for something that despite our devotion, at times begs the question “why are we putting ourselves through this?”
LIVING IN THE REALITY OF THE "I LOVE LUCY" chocolate factory scene
Recently, while out to dinner with a group of women from my kid’s school, someone asked if any of us, who have paused our careers to be at home with our children, relax during the day. It was as if a stranger had casually asked about our propensity towards masturbation. Most were quick to deny ever indulging in a moment of relaxing during “working” hours. We had changed out of our joggers, put on earrings, and had cocktails in hand. But, even as we settled into our humanness aside from our dominant role as mothers, the majority of us treated the concept of relaxing as foreign and strangely untenable. A few weeks later, I attended a yoga class, and the instructor, who was getting over a bad cold, explained that the hardest part of being sick was the realization that the idea of “rest” was a complicated one for her. She quoted Brené Brown who explained that it is important for our society to let go of “exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity [as a metric for] self-worth.”
This resonated with me as someone who often feels deeply connected to that scene in I Love Lucy where Lucy and Ethel try to manage the flood of chocolates coming down the belt in the factory. Seemingly out of options and unsure of what to do, they valiantly begin stuffing the candy down their dresses and into their mouths as the speed of the belt increases and chocolates rush in their direction. With or without a job out of the home, motherhood seems to inevitably entail trying to handle a loaded conveyor belt with no access to a lever to control the speed. There is hangryness and spills, meals to be made and refused, feet that keep growing, incessant questions, valentines and flamingo costumes and potlucks, lice and colds, herding of overstimulated children, a house that refuses to remain clean, and a neglected dog. There are lunches to be made and clothes to be folded, books to be read, and bedtimes to be fought with such fervent commitment. There is a feeling that being able to keep all the balls in the air somehow is a reflection of work ethic, self-worth, or resiliency.
But, even when I sink deeply into my mattresses to doom scroll or binge watch or read, after coming to what I’ve deemed a stopping place, the guilt and judgment sink in. There must be a way for us to recognize all we do and also make relaxing less taboo for a mother. There should be opportunities to not shove the chocolates desperately into our mouths, but leisurely eat them with a glass of wine and a deep sense that we all deserve a break.
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
My youngest child is 4 years old. And while his increasing independence is exciting, I also find myself often wishing I had a magic button to freeze time. This is likely my last baby, and with every milestone he crosses, I feel myself drifting further and further away from a phase in life that redefined me. While my kids’ growing independence opens the door for me to rediscover my autonomy, I also feel like I’m actively mourning the loss of the diaper years. I’m desperately grasping onto this time when my kids’ imaginations are untamed and they still want me to hold them close. My son is at an age right now in which he wears an imaginary watch on his wrist, and it’s always 10:40. He roars when he’s mad and feels with every fiber of his being like he is living within The Lion King. His absolute favorite activity is just tying things to other things. For a recent trip, the only toy I packed for him was a rope. He wants to be outside all of the time, and has recently spent hours stringing Mardi Gras beads and dead Camellia flowers wrapped in pipe cleaners to what he has deemed his “winter tree.” It is rare that he doesn’t have a stick in his hand, and he is enamored by his shadow. The other night he looked deeply into my eyes and said “Mommy, I feel very worried that if my penis gets any bigger, I will fall over and not be able to get up.” These are his biggest concerns for now. This morning, he climbed into my bed and asked me to tell him a story. I came up with one about a stinky bear who had woken from months of hibernating and neglected to bathe. Eventually, his forest friends drew him a bath and told him that after he enjoyed a relaxing scrub, they’d have a party. “Can you tell me a story?” I asked. “All I have in my body is a song, but it’s not ready to be sung” he said. “I’m here when you’re ready,” I replied, doing my absolute best to ignore the inevitability of time and just enjoy my sweet kid who still fits so completely in my arms.
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
The other day, while my dad and I were out to breakfast, we found a ten dollar bill on the ground. In the midst of what felt like an ethical dilemma, my dad picked up the cash, put it in his pocket, and told the hostess that if anyone asked about lost money, to let him know, and he would return it. He then nonchalantly said, “when I was in my 20’s, I found a $20 bill on the ground, and that was enough for me to decide to take a Greyhound from South Bend to New Orleans.” I regret not saying “tell me more.” I’m realizing that I should be asking for that of my parents as often as I can. At 38 years old, I’m finally realizing how important the stories are that I’ve been hearing about for as long as I can remember. Since the secret to adulthood seems to be that nobody knows entirely what they’re doing, listening to the wisdom of my parents based on their experiences feels like an overlooked puzzle piece in charting my path forward. My dad has recently felt inspired to chronicle the ten most consequential moments that he feels helped to carve his trajectory and values. None of the moments he’s written about are unfamiliar to me, but the details and the impact matter more. I am also just one part of his stories, which feels hard to imagine as a mother in the thick of it with raising children. Last fall, my mom and I traveled to New York City for the weekend. We did lots of the New York things: saw shows, walked all over Manhattan, and ate all the food. But my favorite moments of the trip were when we returned to our hotel room, paused our biological programming to “do” and sat on our bed to have totally uninterrupted and open dialogue with one another. While I’d like to believe in the invincibility of my parents, as more of my friends are experiencing the end of hearing the stories of their elders, I am feeling an increased urgency to finally start really listening to what they have to say.
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
THE BEST FARRO SALAD
This has been my go-to, hearty salad this winter. My kids want nothing to do with it, but it makes me happy and was a crowd-pleaser at Christmas dinner. The dressing is perfect. The apple, farro, and pecan mixture offers a great combination of flavors. And, while Arugula isn't a word I love to pronounce or a vegetable I love to eat, it totally works as a base for this salad. Pro tip: sauté the cooked farro for a few minutes in a cast iron skillet with olive oil and parmesan before adding it to the salad to give it a little more crunch and enhance its nuttiness. Hope you enjoy this one as much as I do!
