"The truth is, the ten or twenty minutes I was somebody’s mother were black magic": Ariel Levy's "Thanksgiving in Mongolia"
Ariel Levy's latest piece for the New Yorker is a surreal and devastating account of brief motherhood, miscarriage and loss. It begins in her mid-thirties, after a decade of thinking, "I didn’t like childhood, and I was afraid that I’d have a child who didn’t, either. I was afraid I would be an awful mother. And I was afraid of being grounded, sessile." But slowly:
The idea bloomed in my head that being governed by something other than my own wishes and wanderlust might be a pleasure, a release.
I got pregnant quickly, to my surprise and delight, shortly before my thirty-eighth birthday. It felt like [...]