There was a moment recently when I felt – I mean really felt – like a mom. We were staying with a friend out of town, and we got in late. My husband dropped me off in front of the apartment building so he could park the car around the block. Our one-year-old son had fallen asleep in his car seat and miraculously stayed asleep as we carefully transitioned him into my arms, into the building, up the elevator, and into the apartment. I remember feeling the weight of my now-toddler in my arms, feeling his cheek pressed against my chest, and the way his blonde hair curled up in the back while he was sleepy-sweaty. I remember what it felt like to be a child myself and to have my parents carry me down the hall to my bedroom as I was half-asleep. Something fell into place for me then. In that small moment, I was giving my son what my parents had created for me: safety, warmth, comfort. Yes, I had literally grown this child inside me, given birth to him, and raised him for a year, but somehow it still gave me pause: “Wow, I’m actually a mom.”
I played “house” a lot as a kid. I envisioned what it would be like to have real babies one day and the things our family would do together. And when I became pregnant, those daydreams began again. Some were momentous: family vacations, holiday traditions, milestones like first steps and first days of school, but many of the times I imagined were small. I thought of taking my children to the grocery store and pointing out all the different foods, dance parties in the living room, the books I would read to them over and over. And now this is my reality. (In fact, I’ve done all of those things just today before nap time.)
Being a mom is constant; it permeates my identity like no other role in my life has before. I remember the first time my son stayed home with his dad and I left the house without a diaper bag slung over my shoulder; it was disorienting to look around and realize, “None of these people right now can tell that I’m a mom.” That piece of me feels so all-consuming that it could be stamped across my forehead in bold letters. With diaper changes, housekeeping, mealtimes, play dates, perpetually reorganizing his clothes as he outgrows them, etc., etc., of course I don’t exactly forget that I’m a mom.
But there’s a difference between being a mom and being his mom. Being his mom hits me at certain times more than others. When he crawls into my lap to snuggle into me after a long day and the world pauses for a second before he’s off and running again. When he figures out how to use a new toy and looks to me proudly for affirmation. And obviously, when he points to me, smiling, and exclaims “mama!” (my favorite of his recent skills). These examples will change over time, as do all things parenting-related, but I expect the heart of the feeling will remain. It’s recognizing that this person you have loved to the point of obsession is looking back at you with the same adoring gaze. It’s different than what we share with our spouses, our parents, our siblings, our friends. Here is an entirely new human who is learning how to love, and learning it from us.
Maybe it’s better that these realizations don’t hit us all at once, all the time. Being so much for someone else is overwhelming and scary. All the hours I spent as a child rocking my baby dolls didn’t prepare me for that. It can lead us to guilt and regret, or it can help us appreciate a sense of purpose and fulfillment. I try to hold onto that feeling of carrying my sleeping toddler in from the car, the impromptu hugs, the way he buries his head into my neck when he’s sad, and I’m watching for more of those elusive moments to come along. I’m not just a mom – I’m actually this little boy’s mom – and I’m going to try to embrace that distinction more often.
