Parenting is a journey filled with highs and lows, and I, too, have experienced my fair share. It’s easy for others to cast judgment or make snide comments about what it means to be a “real” mother. “You only have one child. You’re not a real mother,” they say, sharp words that cut deeper than any knife. I’ve heard it all, and it stings.
“Wow, you’re so lucky to only have one,” they say, as if having more would be a badge of honor. If only they understood the struggles that come with raising even one child. The truth is, I wish I could have had another, but my body has its limitations. I’ve been through sleepless nights, comforting a colicky baby whose cries echoed through the house every Tuesday night for two long months. Those cries were relentless, and in my exhaustion, I found solace beneath the stars, pleading with the universe for relief. And yet, here I am, labeled as not a mother.
I’ve held my child when fever gripped him, and I’ve sat beside him in the dark, counting his breaths as he lay sick and restless. The worry is overwhelming, and no amount of medicine can soothe a parent’s heart when they see their child in distress. All I could offer was love, and somehow, that still doesn’t qualify me as a “real” mother.
Friends I thought would understand have distanced themselves, judging the past rather than recognizing the growth that has come with it. I made mistakes, yes, and I’ve owned up to them. I battled addiction for three years, but I’ve clawed my way back to sobriety for nearly a decade. Yet, my child pays the price for my past, facing exclusion from gatherings. A small town has a long memory, and I remain burdened with guilt. So, I’m still not a mother in their eyes.
Having one child doesn’t grant me the title of “real mother.” Sleepless nights and hard work don’t matter; all that counts is the judgment from others. I constantly check my son’s shoes, ensuring they fit, preparing for the next growth spurt because childhood flies by. The worry that comes with being an only child mom is ever-present, even in the summer heat.
My son is almost too big for his crib, and I’m excited to create a playroom full of adventures. A cozy tent for reading and a bookshelf filled with stories are on the horizon. His room will be a whimsical space, complete with trees and clouds, where he can let his imagination soar. Yet, somehow, I’m still deemed not a mother.
Every night, I tuck him into bed after reading stories and singing lullabies. As I look at my little boy, I whisper, “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.” His reply, “Night-night, Mama. Wuv you,” warms my heart. To those who wield sharp words and judgments, I may not be your idea of a mother. But when my son reaches for my hand, wanting to show me his world, I cannot deny that bond. I am the only woman who will ever be his mother, and I embrace that role fully.
I am his mother, and I will always be his Misfit Mama.
For more insights on parenting and artificial insemination, you can check out this blog post on intracervicalinsemination.org. If you’re considering at-home insemination, Make a Mom offers reliable kits to help you on your journey. Additionally, the CDC is an excellent resource for information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, being a mother is not defined by the number of children one has. It’s about the love, dedication, and experiences shared with a child, regardless of the past.
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