I first recognized my unusual mom status long before I officially became a mother. While pregnant, with my bump on full display and battling relentless nausea alongside a painful rib, I wandered the baby section at Target. I was overwhelmed by a sea of bedding, whimsical creatures, and an array of nursery decor items whose names escaped me.
Another expectant mother, dressed impeccably in yoga attire and effortlessly showcasing her pregnancy glow, approached me. She asked about my nursery theme.
“Theme? Like, in life?” I replied, puzzled.
She chuckled, clarifying she was referring to the nursery design. She proudly showed me a soft green fabric swatch accompanied by paint samples in calming shades of green.
“Oh, the nursery!” I thought, recalling scenes from ‘Peter Pan’ where kids played all day. Her theme revolved around a zoo animal motif, complete with creatures riding a train and a mother crafting lampshades. The Pinterest moms, with their creative themes, always left me in awe, and I wondered what secret source of energy they drew from—sanity, perhaps? Or maybe the elusive gift of sleep?
As she shared her detailed plans, a silence fell, expecting me to reciprocate with a similar enthusiasm. I awkwardly fumbled for words. “I guess I’ll get a crib and a changing table. I’ve peeked at Craigslist, but a guy serenaded my belly with ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland,’ so I’m being cautious. Diapers will definitely be involved…”
This moment marked the start of countless inquiries about nursery themes. I soon realized I could either fend off the questioners with jokes about my laziness or concoct a whimsical theme to entertain them. I thought if I claimed my theme was Ryan Gosling, they might forget what they had asked.
“You need a theme,” they insisted—colors, styles, curtains… The pressure built throughout my pregnancy. A baby shower? No thanks. A gender reveal party? What even was that? Celebrating genitalia? I dreaded the thought of being the center of attention at a shower, like a character in a nightmare, gasping for breath.
Eventually, I settled on hosting a “Pre-Baby Barbecue,” inviting both men and women, with plenty of alcohol I couldn’t partake in. People got tipsy, we played no games, and avoided every cliché baby shower tradition. I felt a sense of achievement.
For some, like my mother—who envisioned a grand celebration—my lack of traditional rituals was disheartening. In her eyes, I was the odd one out. Everyone else seemed to follow the script. But I was thrilled to welcome my baby without needing a cake-cutting ceremony. My child would arrive in a room devoid of themes and color coordination.
As I navigated motherhood, I came to terms with my distinctiveness among mom groups. I often felt out of place, yet I admired the incredible moms around me, each embracing their own unique styles. But where were the fellow oddballs? I wondered if motherhood had a way of normalizing people into responsible adults, while I remained blissfully unchanged. I still didn’t care about themes or cribs. I hadn’t adopted the stereotypical “mom haircut” or wardrobe—unless they meant the unkempt look, complete with snack remnants and snot.
During a grocery run, with my six-month-old strapped to my chest, a woman cooed, “Oh my, someone must be hungry! He’s adorable. Do you have him every day?”
No, I just borrow him for grocery trips with a teething baby, I thought.
It wasn’t unusual for people to mistake me for a nanny, or to be surprised that I had a child. I couldn’t quite figure out why I felt like an outsider, but I often found myself holding back or pretending to understand conversations.
I breastfed in public, my child avoided meat, I let his hair grow long, and for some inexplicable reason, his favorite song was “Boom Boom Pow.” There were a million things that drew raised eyebrows and side glances. He once gave a well-rounded hug to a bald man, dubbing him “Buddha,” and cried during emotional songs—I knew he would certainly embrace his own weirdness as he grew.
After my son’s first birthday, I threw a casual gathering, as everyone seemed to be pulling out their themes once more. The party had alcohol, and I included a few traditional touches like pictures of my son and a smash cake—mostly because I wanted one too. However, as I cleaned up the mess of coordinating napkins and themed plates, the realization hit me—I would never fit that mold. It just didn’t feel authentic to me.
Ultimately, motherhood didn’t strip away my quirks. Though I’ve just begun to connect with fellow oddball moms, I know we’re out there. Some are still pretending to understand when others talk about educational funds, while others feel guilty for wanting a night out. Then there are those who struggle with feelings of inadequacy, believing they don’t measure up to the glamorous, successful moms.
Now that I’ve settled deeper into this motherhood journey, I’m learning to embrace my individuality. To all the unique moms out there, whether you sport tattoos, colorful hair, or unconventional pets, don’t fret about fitting in. Cherish your quirks, keep your favorite old songs alive, and enjoy movie nights with childhood classics. The quirky moms are everywhere, questioning if they, too, missed the memo that adulthood meant leaving behind the weirdness.