Updated: Aug. 21, 2015
Originally Published: Sep. 30, 2012
A pivotal moment in my life occurred when my four-year-old son accidentally stepped on my chest, awakening me to the undeniable reality of my body and the changes it had undergone. No, I’m not into anything risqué—unless you count my obsession with sleep. The little foot that landed on my chest belonged to my son, who often distinguishes his actions as “on purpose” or “by accident.” This was definitely an accident, but it sparked a cascade of thoughts in my sleep-deprived brain: “Ouch, my chest, ouch, my self-esteem, shouldn’t this phase be over already? Well, that just happened.”
Sure, it hurt, but it also highlighted a truth I had felt for some time but had never clearly articulated or acknowledged. No matter how much I protest, correct, or discipline, my reality is one where such incidents are possible. My body is no longer a private domain; I no longer hold the reins. You might be thinking, “Isn’t pregnancy supposed to prepare you for this? Sharing your body for nine months?” Theoretically, I was ready. I envisioned a communal sharing of my body as if it were a well-managed cooperative where I would get a larger slice of the pie, and we’d all thrive together. Instead, it turned into a dictatorship that I wasn’t even in charge of. So, yeah, I thought I was prepared. Totally.
Before becoming a parent, I anticipated some of the ways I would relinquish control, but it was more of a vague awareness, like understanding the complexities of a space shuttle. Sure, I knew lack of privacy was part of the parenting gig. I even foresaw the loss of my once-solo trips to the bathroom. But a foot on my chest? Did anyone ever think to prepare for that in motherhood? I never imagined that motherhood would involve not just a lack of privacy but a complete loss of autonomy over my own body. The foot incident became a metaphor for the unexpected challenges of parenting—specifically, the reality that my body felt more like a plaything than my own.
Motherhood has forced me to experience life in new, sometimes bewildering ways. I’ve become an object of comfort: a pillow, a blanket, a source of white noise. I’m instant entertainment: a squishy toy, a ladder, a trampoline. Every time my son pulls my hair or launches a toy at my forehead, I find myself as an interactive learning tool, facilitating his understanding of his own capabilities.
At first glance, some of these transformations may not seem like a loss of bodily autonomy. The choice to breastfeed was mine, but it came with its own sacrifices, primarily in terms of mobility and freedom. Yes, I knew I could always pump—eventually—but in the early days of breastfeeding, I found myself unable to dictate who could see my body. I lost the ability to decide when I would shower or even enjoy a moment of solitude. And don’t get me started on sleep—talk about a human rights violation!
Then came the reality check: my son’s innocent boob-stepping incident was just the tip of the iceberg. I was thrust into discussions about multi-participant pumping schedules, which moved me further from the notion of control over my body. Now, my body was not just under the “benevolent dictatorship” of my little boy, but also beholden to the democratic processes of adult life.
My internal privacy was also compromised. I long for just an hour of solitude with my own thoughts. Neil Gaiman should really consider updating his book American Gods to include the God of Feed—because that deity is everywhere. We are bombarded by social media notifications, emails, and news feeds. But the most persistent “feed” I experience is the constant stream of questions and observations from my four-year-old, who never ceases to be curious. It’s an honor to help him process the world, but it’s also utterly exhausting. Sometimes, I find myself yearning for a few minutes alone with my thoughts—I need that time to nurture my sleep obsession.
The loss of bodily autonomy isn’t inherently bad, but it is a significant shift. I’ve become food, entertainment, comfort, and more. I am everything to my sons right now, but the day will come when that dynamic changes and my autonomy will gradually return, at least for a while. And when I find myself alone with my thoughts again, I’ll surely have a new set of complaints to share.
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Summary:
This piece explores the complexities of motherhood, particularly the loss of bodily autonomy and privacy that comes with parenting. The author reflects on personal experiences that highlight the challenges of navigating life as a mother, using humor and candid observations to convey the emotional and physical shifts that occur after having children.
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