I am a lot of things. A woman, a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, an association executive, a political hack in recovery. A fan of punk rock and and drums and bad pop and magazines for men. I am not any one of these things, and I never have been.
Honestly, I never had any intentions of becoming a mom. Growing up, I never dreamed of wedding veils or baby showers. The world’s a pretty messed up place and that combined with no real burning desire to procreate left me in a grey area. I kind of figured it would be a conversation I would have with my partner, whoever that might be, and if they were down with building a bigger family I would be, too.
Kid A is the product of at least two (allegedly three) methods of failed birth control, a statistical anomaly so small that I have no qualms with referring to his existence as an act of God. Having him saved my life, in a lot of very real ways, but becoming a mother didn’t complete me. It added another layer to who I am.
I don’t think you need to have kids to have a full life. I think in some alternate universe somewhere there is a childless version of me who makes more money, who goes to lots of live shows and stays out late and doesn’t stay in a job because she’s obligated to. I think she’s pretty happy with her place in the world.
In this universe, my reality, I see a live show once a year, if I’m lucky. I pass out on the couch at 8, most nights. Date nights happen quarterly. I have a genetically-inherited sense of wanderlust held in check by a greater need for stability because of what I'm responsible for, who I'm responsible to. But damn if I don’t love those kids with an intensity that’s scary sometimes. I feel really lucky to be a part of their lives, to help them find their paths in this life.
The thing is, neither of those realities is better. The first doesn't have any more or less value than the second. They’re just different.
Mother’s Day is on Sunday, and it’s a conflicted day for a lot of people. I’m sensitive to that, to those for whom the day is a painful reminder of someone beloved lost. For those for whom it feels like an indictment of their choice not to have kids, as if their entire net worth is dependent on whether or not they’ve given birth. For those for whom It’s a wound reopened, all the people who were broken in places by mothers who weren’t there, or, worse, mothers that were. Family is so much more than blood and DNA, and parents don’t get that title by virtue of contributing genetic material to the creation of a life.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there, whether you came upon the title via childbirth or otherwise, who wade in it every day. Who muddle through the good, the bad, the ugly and the smelly, who do their best - and on those days when their best doesn’t quite make it til bedtime - try again in the morning. Happy Mother’s Day to the dads out there who wear both hats, because the media doesn’t turn its lens on you very often but there’s an awful lot of you out there. Happy Mother’s Day to the grandmas, the aunties, the cousins, the godmothers, the teachers, the next-door neighbors, the mentors: the people who step up in the absence of that maternal figure and help give a kid a sense of place in the world.
I have no use for Mitch Albom as a rule, but someone sent me this quote once and I tucked it away: “But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.”
To better endings for all our stories, no matter what kind of beginning we had.
Happy Mother's Day.
