Find The Joy (or not, that’s cool too)

Tetyana Denford - 5 Jul 16

Note: this post contains extremely colourful language that might make your boss/child/husband/mother-in-law/therapist uncomfortable. If you see me on the street, I promise I’m not scary. I may ask you to join me for a glass of wine, though.

I genuinely hate that phrase. Find The Joy. For me, it’s right up there with “secretion” and “fruit of my womb”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a happy person. I find beauty in the mundane, I find inspiration in the challenges. I don’t wallow in self-imposed pity. But hearing someone tell me “find the joy” is the equivalent of telling a cat in heat to “calm down”. It doesn’t work. In fact, when faced with that phrase, the only joy I could find would be the very specific and gratifying joy of breaking something. A plate, perhaps. 

My husband uses this phrase, more than he should for his own well-being, when he sees the Mothering function on my dashboard flashing an angry red light. I WILL LOSE MY MIND IF I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS HORSE SHIT ONE MORE MINUTE is what it’s saying; I AM ABOUT TO OPEN THE DOOR AND WALK OUT ONTO THE STREET IN MY BATHROBE AND SHOUT AT TREES. 

He panics when he sees that light. He thinks to himself two things: 1. that he will have to take over and parent spontaneously and wisely, in that very moment.. and 2. he might have to physically subdue me like some kind of wild boar after the tranquillisers have worn off. So, he says what he thinks is the absolute correct thing, in that moment. He waves his hands in the air calmly, like a hypnotist on quaaludes, and says:

“Find the joy, try and find the joy, sweetheart.” (The ‘sweetheart’ is actually genuine.. it’s thrown in for good measure, like a tiny dog biscuit being thrown through the cage of a rabid pitbull.)

I know you feel bad for him in this scenario. I certainly do. He means well. He’s very rational and measured and calm, trying to diffuse a situation. But actually, his attempts are almost always met with a hissing “are you serious right now?” whilst squinting, staring imaginary lasers at him, wishing that a giant cartoon puff of smoke would surround him and he would vanish.

Thing is, what he doesn’t understand, is that I am happy. Despite me marching around the house mumbling this is ridiculous and screaming into pillows and angrily molesting clean laundry into random drawers… I am happy. Content. Balanced. The outward displays of irritation and losing my patience are not mutually exclusive from the always-present feeling of “I’m lucky. I have 3 healthy kids, a husband who thinks I’m a goddess and friends who encourage drinking gin at playdates.” Maybe I should put that on a badge. Or a t-shirt: YES I AM HAPPY DESPITE DEALING WITH LIFE’S MEANDERING CRAP.

But you know what? I’m human. I have very visceral, unfiltered feelings. I DO absolutely need moments where I can stand in the middle of a busy aisle at Tescos whilst my 3 kids are poking holes in bags of bread and marshmallows and say, out loud, “I swear to christ I don’t know these children, can someone deal with them please?” I should be allowed the indulgence of, instead of “finding the joy”, to say “fuck it” and walk away from my kids wrestling on the windowsill playing King Of The Castle.. nothing will happen because there’s carpet on the floor and it’ll totally break their fall, right? I should be allowed to tell my daughter “stop making toothpaste art on the mirror and FOR THE 56TH TIME, BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”. Sometimes I *don’t* feel like laughing and joining in and saying how ‘adorable’ it is that she’s being so imaginative. It’s toothpaste. It’s sticky. I don’t need that complication in my life right now, toothpaste is a absolute dick to scrape off the mirror.

In lieu of my husband, I instead have a fabulously irreverent girlfriend who indulges my love of cursing in Motherhood’s face. We don’t talk about any kind of struggle, or woe is my lot in life, we share stories about how absolutely bonkers-crazy it is that we made the decision to take care of these tiny, incoherent, irrational people on an everyday basis; whilst having to stage-manage our own life. No one tells you that in any kind of Parenting Manual. Chapter 48: How To Remember to Feed Your Children Something Other Than Tinned Peaches, Crisps and Toast. Yes, Every Day. Having kids is like landing on a planet populated with 3-foot tall people that all speak nonstop gibberish, sneeze on your clothes, keep asking for snacks and ask you questions like “why do boys have squishy balls?”. 

So, she and I say to each other things like “my kid just swore at me, is it legal to sell him on eBay?”, we text emoji eye-rolls to each other in bed at 10pm whilst ignoring our husbands, and then eventually we do the “okay, you got this, you’re amazing” pep-talk, ready for the next day. Moments like that are critical. They recalibrate my brain. Life with kids is strange, and I don’t need to apologise for not wanting to find that “joy” in every moment. Sometimes, whilst the joy is bubbling underneath it all, it’s perfectly acceptable to “find the ‘that’ll do’”. Sometimes, it’s perfectly okay to say “how is THIS my life right now?” whilst finding an entire unpeeled banana shoved into one of my shoes. Sometimes, it’s even about walking away saying “screw the ‘joy’, give me the ‘gin'”, instead.

Tetyana Denford

Tetyana is a Ukrainian-American mum of three, married to an Englishman, living in NY. She's written for Elle and Vogue magazines, and her first novel 'Motherland' is available at Amazon. She hosts a YouTube show called The Craft and Business of Books, translates for Frontline PBS news, and writes freelance.

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