A pivotal moment in my life came when my little one accidentally stepped on my chest, shocking me into a realization of what my body had transformed into—or rather, what it had stopped being. No, I’m not into anything wild, unless you consider my fondness for sleep a kink. The culprit of this unwelcome step was none other than my spirited four-year-old son, who likes to categorize his actions as either “on purpose” or “on accident.” This particular incident was clearly an accident, but it triggered a cascade of sleep-deprived thoughts: ‘ouch, my chest, ouch, my self-esteem, shouldn’t this stage be behind me? Oh well, that just happened.’
Yes, it hurt, but it was more than just physical pain; it vividly illustrated a feeling I’d been grappling with but hadn’t truly acknowledged. No matter how much I resist, correct, or discipline, I live in a world where such things happen. My body feels less like my own; I’ve lost the right to make decisions about it. You might be thinking, “Well, duh, isn’t motherhood supposed to prepare you for this?” Sure, I thought I was ready, but I envisioned it more like a cooperative society where everyone shares my body, but I’d get the prime real estate. Instead, it’s turned into a dictatorship, and guess what? I’m not the one in charge.
Before becoming a mom, I had a vague idea of the ways I’d relinquish control, but it was more like trying to understand how astronauts live in zero gravity. I knew privacy was a trade-off, and I may have even predicted that my bathroom trips would no longer be solo ventures. But a foot on my chest? Seriously? Did anyone even think to mention that as a possibility in preparation for motherhood? It’s not just about expecting the unexpected; it’s about bracing for the unimaginable, like “these boobs are now public property.”
Motherhood has transformed me into something entirely different—an object, a noun, a being that sometimes feels more like a toy than a person. I’ve learned what it’s like to be someone’s snack. I’ve become a comfort item: a pillow, a cozy blanket, and even a white noise machine. I’m instant entertainment, a squishy toy, and sometimes even a trampoline. When my baby yanks my hair in frustration or when I’m not quick enough to dodge a flying remote, I become a hands-on learning tool for my son, like a Baby Piaget, helping him discover what his little hands can do.
At first glance, some of these may not seem like a loss of autonomy. Sure, I made the choice to breastfeed, but that decision came with a hefty price tag: freedom of movement. I thought about pumping, but that didn’t happen right away. The intense pain I endured during the early days of breastfeeding, especially while my mother-in-law was visiting to help, stripped away my ability to choose who sees my body. I don’t even get to decide when I can shower—did I mention sleep yet? I declare it a violation of human rights!
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any more invasive, the reality of my body as a resource escalated into discussions about pumping schedules involving multiple participants. My perception of “my body” was now a mere concept, completely irrelevant. I realized my body was both governed by the little ones and also involved in the democratic practices of adults.
With this came an invasion of my mental space. I no longer own my thoughts; oh, how I yearn for just one quiet hour! Neil Gaiman should really consider adding a new deity in his book American Gods—the God of Feed—because that entity is everywhere. Social media, emails, news updates, you name it, all vying for my attention. But then there’s the persistent, heartfelt feed that demands my response—the four-year-old feed. His endless barrage of questions, observations, and jokes pours in like a relentless stream, always starting with an irresistible “Mama?” Being the lens through which he views the world is one of motherhood’s most rewarding roles, but it can also feel overwhelming. Sometimes I just need a brief moment alone with my thoughts, please! I need that time to nurture my sleep obsession.
Losing my bodily autonomy isn’t a curse, but boy, it’s a noticeable shift. I am food, comfort, entertainment, and a learning tool. I am everything to my sons, but one day that will change. Eventually, I’ll reclaim my bodily autonomy, if only for a while, and so will my mental freedom. And when I find myself alone with my thoughts again, I’ll probably have a new set of complaints.
If you’re curious to learn more about home insemination, check out this helpful resource on artificial insemination kits.
In summary, motherhood transforms your body and mind in ways you never anticipated. From losing personal space to becoming a source of nourishment and entertainment, the journey is wild and unpredictable. Amidst the chaos, there’s a longing for moments of solitude, but those are fleeting as you navigate the beautiful yet challenging world of parenting.