I first recognized my uniqueness as a mom long before I officially became one. While I was pregnant, battling relentless nausea and a broken rib, I found myself wandering through the baby section at Target, surrounded by an overwhelming assortment of bedding, plush animals, and accessories I couldn’t even begin to name.
A fellow expectant mother, perfectly styled in her yoga pants and chic top, casually rubbed her belly and asked about my nursery theme. “My theme? In life?” I blurted out, only to realize she meant the nursery. She proudly displayed a soft green fabric swatch and a selection of calming paint cards.
Oh right, the nursery. I thought about how it resembled the whimsical spaces in ‘Peter Pan,’ where children play all day under the watchful eye of an older sibling. Her chosen theme involved playful zoo animals on a train, complete with custom lampshades crafted by her mother. I marveled at these Pinterest-perfect moms and wondered what kind of magic they possessed—was it sanity or a secret stash of sleep?
As she excitedly shared her plans, I awkwardly attempted to keep up. “I’ll probably just get a crib and a changing table… maybe check Craigslist, but some guy did sing ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland’ to my belly, so I’ll be cautious. And there will definitely be diapers…”
This was just the beginning of endless nursery-theme inquiries. I quickly learned to deflect questions with jokes about my laziness (which was far from the truth) or concoct elaborate imaginary themes. If I told them I was going with a Ryan Gosling theme, perhaps they’d forget what they asked.
“You really need a theme,” they insisted, discussing color coordination, style, and curtains. The pressure mounted throughout my pregnancy. A baby shower? No thanks. A gender reveal party? What was that even about? I dreaded the thought of being the center of attention at a celebration I found utterly bizarre. To me, a baby shower felt like a nightmare I’d wake from in a cold sweat.
Eventually, I organized a “Pre-Baby Barbecue” to regain some control over the situation. I invited men (well, made sure they showed up) and women, ensured there was plenty of alcohol (that I couldn’t drink), and we played no games. It was a success.
While my mother envisioned grand celebrations, my lack of traditional rituals left her disappointed. In her eyes, I was the odd one out—unlike all her friends’ kids who embraced the expected festivities. Though I was thrilled about becoming a mother, I felt no desire to partake in cake cutting or elaborate themes. My child would enter the world without fanfare and sleep in a room absent of a color scheme.
As I settled into motherhood, it became evident that I didn’t fit into any conventional mom groups. I often felt different. Don’t get me wrong; these moms were remarkable and found their way through parenting, but where were the other quirky moms? I’d always connected with unusual and eclectic friend groups, and now I was searching for my tribe among moms.
I remembered my peculiar elementary and high school friends, my odd college pals, and even my unique couples’ friends. But now, I was thrust into the mom arena and wondered if motherhood had the power to normalize everyone. Did I somehow miss out on that gene? I was still me—uninterested in themes, unconcerned about cribs, and sporting what could only be described as a “mom wardrobe” of unwashed clothes, covered in snacks and snot.
In a grocery store, with my six-month-old strapped to me, wailing in hunger, another lady cooed, “Oh, he’s precious! Do you have him every day?” I couldn’t help but think, “No, I just borrow him for grocery shopping.” It wasn’t the first time someone assumed I was a nanny or seemed shocked that I was the mother.
I noticed that I frequently had to suppress my thoughts or pretend to be knowledgeable about certain topics. I breastfed in public, my child was a vegetarian, and I let his hair grow long. He had a soft spot for “Boom Boom Pow,” which baffled me. People often had opinions, gave me side glances, or avoided eye contact altogether. He once hugged a portly bald man and referred to him as Buddha, and he had a knack for crying during sad songs. I knew he was destined to be wonderfully weird like me.
After my son’s first birthday, I organized a small gathering to appease the thematic tendencies of friends and family. There was alcohol and some traditional elements, like photos of my son and a smash cake (because I wanted one too). As I cleaned up the aftermath, surrounded by coordinated plates and napkins, it hit me—I was never going to be that mom. The thought of matching napkins felt foreign to me.
Ultimately, motherhood did not erase my quirks. While I’ve only begun to discover other unusual moms, I know we exist. Some are still figuring things out, pretending to understand conversations about education funds, while others grapple with feelings of inadequacy next to seemingly perfect moms.
Now that I’m deeper into this parenting journey, I’m learning to embrace who I am as a mom. Fellow weirdos, don’t fret over your tattoos, colorful hair, unconventional pets, or cluttered homes. Keep your nostalgic music and your old jeans. Build forts, have your own cake smashes, and cherish your unique dance moves. Watch classic shows like the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on date nights and enjoy pizza in bed. The quirky moms are all around us, also wondering if they missed the normalization gene.
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In summary, while motherhood often brings societal expectations, embracing our unique selves is key. There are many of us navigating this journey in our own quirky ways, and it’s essential to stay true to who we are.
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