Parenting
Updated: July 5, 2018
Originally Published: May 28, 2016
In the realm of motherhood, sharp words can sting deeply. Each cutting comment feels like a small blade, piercing through the heart, leaving behind a mix of pain and confusion. I’ve experienced the whispers and seen the dismissive glances. Too often, I’ve been made to feel inadequate.
“Oh, you only have one child. You’re not a real mother.”
“Lucky you, just the one.”
“Try having multiple; then you’ll understand.”
If only they knew the truth. I often wish I could have welcomed another child into my life, but my body simply won’t allow it. I have been up at night changing diapers, enduring colicky hours filled with relentless screams that would begin every Tuesday night at 11 p.m. and last until dawn. Those two months were filled with tears—not just from my child, but from me as well. I would place my baby in his bassinet, step outside, and let the sobs flow as I prayed for relief. Even now, Tuesdays bring a shudder of dread.
I’ve sat with a child burning with fever, desperately trying to cool him down in a bath while tears streamed down my face. Each night spent awake, watching him struggle to breathe, felt like an eternity. I took him to doctors, anxiously waiting for answers, feeling helpless. All I could offer was my love, and yet somehow, I’m still told I’m not a “real” mother.
Friends I thought I could count on have remarked, “She’s not bad at parenting.” I’ve made my share of mistakes, and I don’t shy away from admitting them. I carry the weight of my past choices, which haunt me in the form of my child’s social interactions. My little boy is often excluded from gatherings, a painful reminder of the three years I spent lost to addiction. Although I’ve been sober for nearly a decade, the scars of my past linger, and the town never forgets. Thus, I question my identity as a mother.
Merely having one child doesn’t grant you a badge of honor in motherhood. It doesn’t matter how little I sleep or how hard I strive to provide for my son. I’m constantly checking the size of his shoes, knowing how quickly he outgrows them. Right now, I fret about the upcoming winter while it’s still July.
He’s getting too big for his crib, and I’m planning a new room filled with playful spaces—a little nook for reading, decorated with clouds and trees. The thought of a big boy’s room excites me, and yet, I still find myself questioning my worth as a mother.
Every night, after reading a few of his favorite stories and singing lullabies, I tuck him into bed. I gaze at my growing child and whisper, “Goodnight, my love.” His sweet response melts my heart, “Night-Night, Mama. Wuv you.” To those who judge me, I might not fit your ideal of motherhood. I have only one child, and I’ve stumbled along the way, but when my son reaches out for me, I can’t help but follow where he leads. I am the only mother he knows, and I embrace that title wholeheartedly. I am a mother, and I will always be his Misfit Mama.
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Summary:
Motherhood is a profound journey filled with love, challenges, and sometimes judgment. Despite the struggles and societal expectations, the bond between a mother and her child is unique and invaluable. Whether faced with criticism or personal doubts, the essence of being a mother shines through in the love and care given to a child, defining what it truly means to be a parent.