I always dreamed of having children. I never dreamed of becoming a mom. I suppose it’s a matter of perspective or semantics. But for these past 10 months that I’ve been raising my daughter, I still don’t feel like a mom. Whatever that means.
“Mom” can be a loaded term. For me, it’s full of contradictions, stereotypes, assumptions and judgements. Oh, and decades of therapy. When I was pregnant people often asked how I felt about becoming a mom. It was one of the standard questions I got repeatedly, alongside: “Are you going to keep working or stay at home?” and “Are you going to do natural or drugs?” (as if taking medication or having an epidural suddenly makes giving birth unnatural?! …for another post) and “Are you ready to be a mom?” I didn’t have an answer to that last question, but I suspected I would once my baby was born. I figured things would sort of shake out and the whole parenting identity would make sense.
The social media landscape is full of Insta-famous families with adorable, well-dressed kids playing in their perfectly curated bedrooms while their tired-chic mothers pose holding a coffee mug that says something like “super mom, super tired” or “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.” That’s one version. I know there are many other versions behind the filter. Each of those mamas is her own individual person with her own struggles, insecurities, highs and lows. My version just so happens to be the one that doesn’t feel like a “mom” at all.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I don’t even know what being a mom would feel like. The only reason I’m thinking about it is because it’s a frequent topic of conversation lately. I guess I thought I’d feel like a different person—at least a little—after my baby was born. But I don’t. Not at all. I mean, of course my life looks a little different now. It might take me a little longer to get out of the house, or do a grocery run. But as far as who I am goes, I feel the same as I did when I was 25.
I have my same anxieties, hopes, dreams and fears. There are moments throughout the day where I legitimately forget that I have a child (I’m a good parent, I swear). And then there are moments where I just stare at her in awe, in awe that this incredible little being didn’t even exist last year and yet here she is, teaching me the ways of the world, and I cannot imagine my life without her. (But, like, in a big picture sort of way. Because I can picture a weekend without her. Maybe even a few days. That would be nice).
It's just SO WEIRD. The biggest thing to happen in my life to date (having a baby) and I don’t feel any different. Perhaps I’ve attached too much meaning to the title. Maybe I subconsciously resisted the identity because of my own judgements. “Mom” I thought meant someone who joins all the mommy and me groups, makes playdates, reads about the latest parenting techniques, obsesses over schools and nutrition, only hangs out with other moms. Someone who latches on to this new “mom” identity at the expense of her pre-baby self. Of course, I care about those things, but not as much as quality time with my girl and finding “me” time wherever I can. In fact, this new role has sort of pushed me to hold steadfast to the things that make me feel like myself—yoga, writing, art, friends, meditation. They feel more precious, more important. If anything, the stronger my conviction in what makes me feel like myself, the better parent I can be to my daughter. It’s practically a direct correlation—I come back from a short 1-hour yoga class and suddenly I feel like I have all the energy in the world to give both my husband and my daughter. My fear is losing myself in the one role that takes up most of my time, as I am currently a stay at home mom (which feels really strange to say). Given that all I do every day is watch my daughter’s every move, I end up obsessing over her health, nutrition, education and, yes, go to a baby and me group or two. Since my default is being absorbed by my daughter, I work extra hard at asserting my own identity wherever I can. Maybe that’s why I resist the title?
My mom wasn’t your most typical parent. She more or less left when I was in the 6th grade (though my parents didn’t officially divorce until I was in high school). She lived in different cities across the globe, mainly the U.S., Mexico, and Japan. She wasn’t around to go prom dress shopping with me. She wasn’t around to take my little sister to her college orientation (I went instead). After a fateful Easter, she was never around for family gatherings either. Given this history, I actually had a fear I’d be too involved in my children’s lives to make sure I didn’t abandon them in the way I felt like my mom had abandoned me. I had a fear of losing myself and giving into their every need.
Now that I am living the reality of parenthood, I’m finding myself more focused on maintaining my separation and individualism. I feel more aligned with my own mother than I ever did before. I used to resent her for not being around, for not knowing the names of my friends. But now I understand and respect her decisions to do what felt right for herself, because through it all (and we went through a lot) I always knew she loved me. My mom was just doing her best-- to be mother to my sister and I and to follow her dreams at the same time. No one’s perfect. Not the moms with the novelty coffee mugs, not the PTA moms, not the divorced moms who live halfway across the world. There are things she’s said she’d do differently if given the chance. But also, she is not one to dwell. Another important lesson I received from her. 30 some odd years from now I wonder what lessons my daughter will reflect upon, what she will have absorbed from me, what hurt I inadvertently caused and what healed it, what love she feels, what misunderstandings she now understands. I wonder if, by then, I’ll feel like a “mom”. Or maybe I’ll be too busy doing my best at navigating my dreams and passions and family life that it won’t matter. And I’m sure by then no one will be asking how I feel about being a “mom.”