I first came to terms with my identity as an unconventional mom long before I actually held my child. It was during my pregnancy, when I found myself wandering the baby section at Target, my belly round and my body battling relentless nausea. Surrounded by an overwhelming array of pastel bedding, whimsical animals with oversized eyes, and frilly nursery decor I couldn’t even name, I felt out of place.
An equally expectant woman, dressed in trendy yoga attire and exuding that effortlessly chic pregnant vibe, approached me and asked, “What’s your nursery theme?”
“Theme? In life?” I quipped, a bit confused.
She chuckled and clarified that she was referring to the nursery design. As she displayed a soft green fabric swatch alongside paint samples in various calming shades, I thought, Oh, the nursery. Like in ‘Peter Pan,’ right?
Her theme revolved around adorable zoo animals on a train, complete with custom lampshades crafted by her mother. The Pinterest-perfect moms with their meticulously planned themes never ceased to amaze me. I often wondered what secret source of energy fueled their creativity—was it sanity or the elusive gift of adequate sleep?
As she excitedly described her detailed plans, she paused, expecting me to share in her enthusiasm. Awkwardly, I stammered, “I guess I’ll get a crib… and a changing table. I’ve been checking Craigslist, but after some guy serenaded my belly with ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland,’ I’m taking it slow. And diapers, definitely diapers…”
This marked the beginning of an endless stream of inquiries about my nursery theme. I quickly learned I could either deflect with jokes about my laziness (which was far from the truth) or concoct an elaborate theme to satisfy the curious. I imagined telling them my theme was Ryan Gosling just to see their puzzled expressions fade away.
“You need a theme,” people insisted—color coordination, style, curtains. The pressure mounted as my pregnancy progressed. A baby shower? Absolutely not. A gender reveal party? What was that? A celebration of anatomy? The thought of being the center of a baby shower felt like a nightmare I’d wake from in a panic.
In the end, I opted for a “Pre-Baby Barbecue,” an event where I could maintain some control. We invited both men and women, stocked up on alcohol I couldn’t touch, and played no games or awkward activities. It was a success.
My mother, who envisioned a grand celebration, was disappointed by my lack of traditional rituals. In her eyes, I was the odd one—none of her friends’ children eschewed these customs. But while I was excited about becoming a parent, I felt no obligation to slice into a surprise cake. My child would enter the world without trumpets and sleep in a room devoid of a color scheme.
As I navigated motherhood, I realized I didn’t align with the typical mom groups. Yes, many moms are doing remarkable things their own way, but where were the other oddballs like me? I’ve always gravitated toward eclectic friendships, and I began to wonder if motherhood transformed people into responsible adults, leaving me behind with my quirks intact. I was still me—uninterested in nursery themes and devoid of a “mom haircut” or wardrobe, which, for me, meant clothes often stained with snacks.
While grocery shopping one day, my six-month-old strapped to me and wailing, a woman cooed, “Oh my, someone must be hungry. He’s adorable! Do you take care of him every day?” I couldn’t help but think, No, I just borrow him for grocery trips with a teething infant.
I often felt like an outsider, unable to pinpoint why. I found myself biting my tongue, trying to fit into conversations I didn’t quite understand. I breastfed in public, my child followed a meat-free diet, and I let his hair grow long. His favorite song? For reasons unknown, it was “Boom Boom Pow.” Countless sideways glances and opinions surrounded my parenting choices; he once affectionately hugged a bald, portly stranger and called him Buddha. Most importantly, I knew he would embrace his own weirdness, just like me.
After my son’s first birthday, I hosted a small gathering, feeling the pressure of the theme-driven celebrations that surrounded me. I included a few conventional touches, like photos and a smash cake (mostly because I wanted one too). As I cleaned up after the event, surrounded by matching napkins and themed plates, the realization hit me—I would never be that mom. The very thought of coordinated party supplies felt alien to me.
Ultimately, motherhood didn’t strip away my uniqueness. I may still be finding my tribe of quirky mom friends, but I know we’re out there. Some moms are still navigating the early stages, pretending to grasp conversations about education funds, while others grapple with guilt over wanting a night out. And then there are those who feel overwhelmed and inadequate, measuring themselves against the polished, successful moms.
Now that I am further along on this journey, I embrace being that mom. Fellow weird mothers, don’t shy away from your tattoos, pink hair, or unconventional pets. Keep your cherished CDs from the early 2000s and those jeans you’ve held onto since high school. Build forts, have personal cake smashes, and don’t trade your dance moves or nights out with friends for conformity. Relish in nostalgia by watching classic shows like the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles while enjoying pizza in bed. There are plenty of us unique moms out there, perhaps wondering if we, too, missed out on that “normal” gene.
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In summary, while motherhood may come with its own set of expectations, it doesn’t have to erase your individuality. Embrace your quirks, and don’t hesitate to create your own path in this beautiful journey of parenting.