Parenting
Daggers come in many forms. Sharp edges cut deep, leaving behind pain and bleeding hearts. I’ve heard the hurtful words. I’ve faced the dismissive glances. I’ve been overlooked and undervalued.
“Oh, you only have one. You’re not a real mother.”
“Wow, you’re so fortunate to only have the one. Imagine having more than one; you wouldn’t know the struggle.”
Each comment feels like a punch to the gut. I can’t help but think, “Lucky?” I’ve longed for another child, but my body has its limits. I’ve changed diapers, endured sleepless nights, and faced colic that struck like clockwork every Tuesday at 11 p.m. for months. Those relentless cries echoed through the night until dawn, leaving me outside in the dark, sobbing and pleading for relief. Even today, Tuesdays still send shivers down my spine.
I’ve cradled my little one with a fever spiking at 103 degrees. As the temperature climbed, I’d fill the tub with cool water, sharing in his distress. I couldn’t fix his sickness, only watch him breathe through the nights that seemed endless. Doctor visits brought worry, while medications felt painfully slow to work. All I had to offer was my love, yet somehow, I’m still not considered a real mother.
Former friends have remarked, “She’s doing okay as a parent.” I’ve made my share of mistakes; I don’t shy away from them. I accept the consequences of my choices. A decade-long friendship may have faded, but my little boy remains mine, even if he’s not welcome at gatherings. For three years, I grappled with addiction, but I’ve been sober for almost ten. The scars of my past linger, and in this small town, the judgment never fades. I’m still not a mother.
Having just one child doesn’t grant you the title of “Mommy.” It doesn’t matter how little sleep I get or how tirelessly I strive to provide for my son. I’m always checking the fit of his shoes, worrying about the next size. His little feet grow so quickly, and with summer flying by, winter jackets will soon be needed. It’s an October concern I fret over in July. And, yet, I’m still not a mother.
My son is nearly outgrowing his crib. Plans for a bigger room with play areas are in the works. A cozy tent will be a space for reading, and a bookshelf is ever-expanding. I envision a room filled with trees, clouds, and dandelions, complete with a big boy bed adorned with a blue quilt. And still, I’m not a mother.
At night, I tuck my little boy into bed after reading a few stories and singing his favorite lullabies. I gaze at this ever-changing child and whisper, “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.” He responds with, “Night-night, Mama. Wuv you.”
To those with judgmental eyes, I may not fit your definition of a mother. I may only have one child, and I’ve stumbled along the way. But when my son reaches for my hand and says, “Come here, Mama,” I follow him into his world. I will never deny that connection. I am his mother, and I will always be his Misfit Mama.
This article was originally published on May 28, 2016.
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Summary
: This piece reflects on the complexities of motherhood, emphasizing that the title of “mother” isn’t solely defined by the number of children one has. It shares personal struggles, triumphs, and the deep bond that exists between a mother and her child. Despite societal judgments, the love and commitment felt by a mother remain at the core of her identity.