A Single Mom Spills on Motherhood

The authentic truth of my complicated experience, & please don't get me wrong...

the duo

“Here’s what I want to say about motherhood, but don’t…” (Especially when it’s complicated. Especially when you’re afraid of being misunderstood.)

Prompt from

cara alwill

Thank you for this and for making me think <3

~

Well, I don’t often write about motherhood in the full sense of it because I am a half sense of it, a single mom. A mother without a father. So from birth there was no other parent reflecting my role back to me. No witness. Just she and I. I, with an enormous responsibility.

I didn’t have sisters, close cousins, friends with babies, I was the first. So I learned about childbirth from youtube vloggers and my own second degree tear. And I had no idea the way my life would change. Well, I chose to enter blindly into it because I was driven to. But I didn’t mean to sacrifice myself to my new role. Because as my stomach got bigger, and my baby grew, covid hit and my marriage got tense and sketchy. And then voila! Here’s your newborn, mama. Any questions? No, I had a purpose. A role. A slave to trying to get more sleep. My projects would have to pause. It was just go time…you’re in the trenches, raise this baby. It was like school finals. Hair up, biggest coffee you can find, no sleep. GET IT DONE, LOOPY. This is your life and this is her life. This is your family. The man has left the chat. And your Verizon plan. And your condo. GET IT DONE.

I think also the love I feel for her is so obvious. It’s hard to mention in the way it’s hard for me to write a poem. It has to come to you for expression or you’re going to sound like an idiot trying to find the words.

I always wanted to be a mother. Ever since I was a little girl with my doll (Baby Danny), my own mother will tell you that. My little brother I saw as a true gift to me. I was programed very strongly genetically I suppose. I was going to be a mother no matter what. Finding the husband wasn’t as easy. Or atleast the man I was with my whole twenties wasn’t as convinced.

And yet I conceived my daughter. Then the pandemic struck as did my divorce. And I took care of her alone in lockdown.

My initiation into motherhood was a wailing fireball. Full of love and full of darkness. I often felt I wish I could die but I would never because of her. My pain was so strong, my grief of losing HIM, but I had no choice but to carry this tiny infant to safety. Carry this tiny infant who was shaped just like her father (same back) to safety. Where was her father? He wasn’t answering my calls. So I hugged her and I took care of her and I put my own life on hold. Get her to safety.

And I did.

But who am I to speak on motherhood? That’s how I feel. I have simply put, “wung it.” And yet, I have also always felt it was my mission. So have I failed my mission? I don’t want to half ass my mission, you know. But I’m giving it my all though the cliff is steep, dear Jesus.

I am not a woman who had delayed attachment to my child. I loved her in the womb. I spoke my child into existence, I missed her. I remember being excited for her, for her life before I went into labor. I was giving her her life!

I had a drug free childbirth with midwives. I breastfed until she bit my nip. I sent her to outdoor farm preschool. We sing every night. We dance to Records. She screams “MOOOOM” from the bathroom, CAN YOU WIPE MY BUTT?” but there are other moments I am not as proud of, like when I punched through some dry wall in a rental during the divorce, like when I’ve cried for mercy, or left the tv on for a nap, or just generally wished it could have been different even though I know it could have only ever been one way and she and I are stronger for it.

My mom says she is the spitting image of me at her age. The doctor thinks she could grow to be six feet. She was a 9.4 22 inch baby. She’s a strong girl. Though I don’t feel it, I guess I am now too.

Motherhood is complex. At best it’s pure love, family you have created. Love without words. At it’s hardest it’s caretaking after the adreneline wears off and you’re just closing you’re eyes to rest and you are mandatory needed to jump into action. And I jump. I don’t cut corners. I jump for her every time.

I thought I would have many kids. Maybe three. The part that hurts is not being able to give her a sister. She wants a sister. I want a sister for her. And so we have pets.

I though that I would have more mom friends. But it has to line up perfectly. You need to have kids the same ages so you are together in the trenches of say, potty training, or starting solid foods. And the phases and seasons that your child goes through are really just that. You master blending puree and then you’re trying to convince them to pee in the potty for five stars on the chart for a toy rubber duck.

When she’s with her father I don’t think of her. My therapist says it’s likely a protective measure. So much is out of my hands.

I’m doing the best that I can. I feel a little too human to be a mother. I want to be a great mother. I have said that.

But I am just me.