One of the most embarrassing moments of my life occurred when someone mistook me for my daughter’s nanny. We were leaving our first music class in Georgia when the teacher casually remarked, “You can tell Eliana’s parents I’ll email them.” My heart raced, and I stammered, “She’s my daughter.” The teacher quickly apologized, but another mom chimed in, “She probably just thinks you look so young.” Thankful yet deeply hurt, I hurried out of there, allowing the tears to flow once I was at a safe distance.
The misunderstanding continued for weeks as the teacher kept referring to the other moms and dads and the nanny. I couldn’t believe she was including me in that assumption. After yet another awkward conversation where I reminded her of her mistake, I thought Nanny-Gate 2014 had finally come to an end.
From the moment I laid eyes on my daughter, I braced myself for the possibility that she might not look like me. However, nothing prepared me for the emotional turmoil that ensued when I was confronted with that reality. At the time, I was grappling with postpartum depression, and the pain this incident triggered was unexpected. I had spent months wishing I wasn’t a mom, feeling unprepared and worried that I was failing my little girl. My love for her was immense, which made me feel even more that she deserved better.
The assumption made by the teacher was rooted in racial differences. When I married a man of a different ethnicity, I never anticipated that our daughter might not resemble me. My racial identity is clear, while my daughter has fair skin and curly hair, making it easy for others to overlook our family dynamic.
Although the error was glaring, the deeper wound lay in my own thoughts saying, “Of course she doesn’t think I’m Eliana’s mom. It’s because I’m a terrible mother.” I’ve faced subtle and overt racism throughout my life, but what truly devastated me was the denial of my motherhood identity.
Internally battling my role as a mother was one thing, but having someone else suggest I wasn’t was overwhelming. I reflected on how much that single assumption stripped away from me, and I found myself mourning for the title I held dear.
After 23 hours of labor, my daughter arrived, a little bundle who made it clear she was ready to change my life. She refused to sleep unless held, which led to weeks of sleepless nights. I was the one, alongside my husband, to wake up for her cries, walking around like a zombie for nearly two years due to her restless sleeping. I breastfed her on demand for 21 months, pouring my heart and soul into being her mom.
It was only after that painful moment of being mistaken as her nanny that I understood how crucial the title of “mother” was to me. My struggle with embracing motherhood had been fueled by self-doubt and guilt. I realized that I had fought against my new identity for far too long, and now I wanted to claim it with pride. I wanted my efforts to be acknowledged, and to be seen as the mother I worked so hard to be.
Slowly but surely, I am beginning to believe in my worth as a mother. The memory of being called a nanny serves as motivation for me to embrace my role and assert my identity. I know there is no one else for my daughter; I am her mother. I hope that as Eliana grows and engages with the world, people will see beyond our skin tones and recognize the bond we share. I want it to be clear that I am her mom, and I hope she never feels diminished by questions about our differences.
Ultimately, I wish for her to find her own identity without limitations, and that others will acknowledge my efforts. If misunderstandings do arise, I hope to channel my inner Brandy and Monica, confidently asserting, “I’m sorry if you’re confused. She belongs to me. The girl is mine.”
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