Not long after I became a woman, I knew I wanted to be a
mother.
I used to babysit all of the neighborhood children. I would
watch all of my mom’s friend’s kids. I never minded. I was used to watching my
sisters all the time. It was never a problem.
I took a bringing up baby class in high school. I had too
much fun with pretending it was real. Instantly bringing the doll home to bathe,
powder and make him smell like a real baby.
Most of the women in my family got pregnant as teenagers. I
knew young I wanted children, but I also knew that, more than anything, I did not
want to be my mother. I wanted to give my children more.
So I threw myself into school. I knew that would be my only
way out. Until I got a boyfriend. I slipped and fell into this expectation of
perfection that hoping and society had placed in my mind. He was supposed to be
by my side through everything. We were both going to become doctors, have a
grand house with a white picket fence, and lots of kids. But expectations are
counting your eggs before they hatch. I was a mother hen, but all my eggs were
filled with lies. When they cracked and broke I was left with eggshells to walk
on.
I am so glad that I wanted to not be my mother enough that I
did not have children with that man. Despite society pushing me because we were
married. Despite society pushing me so we could get government assistance when
we were poor. I knew that med school and kids didn’t mix. And kids with him
were never that realistic when I imagined them. Divorcing him was hard because
I felt like I was turning into my mother. He threw that in my face even. But I
hadn’t mothered myself all these years to do that.
No, I have done so much more. I have made mistakes, but I
have learned from them. Each slip up has been a chance to build footing so I
don’t slip that far down again.
But what pains me the most is that I am now 31 years old.
Society wonders why I am still single and still have no children. My own uterus
hates me with a monthly stab of pain reminding me of another egg I am letting
go. But it also reminds me that I am not my mother. Because despite my desire
to be a mother, I know that I am still not quite ready.
I have been healing so many wounds. I used to think my
brokenness made me not whole and ruined. But really I was just exposing the
parts of myself that needed attention. I needed to grieve for a childhood that
I never got. I was robbed of it by being forced to grow up. I never got to be a
kid. I had to grow and be strong to carry the weight of my circumstances on my
shoulders.
In my grieving for my childhood lost, I understand my draw
to children. I love seeing how they think and wonder. I love to see them
discover. I love their innocence and ability to learn. Their imagination is
everything. To see them experience what I never had.
I do not want to be a mother to live through my children. Getting
to help cause a child to be a child and grow in due time to be a functional
adult is all I want.
I think being a mother will help me nurture the child inside
myself that never got a chance to live. Experiencing the joys in life myself
and knowing that I want to see my own kids grow into whoever they think their
best self is. I will nurture my inner child and actual children to help with
imagination and hopes and dreams, but never expectations.
That is why I do not expect to be a mother anytime soon. I
still have some grieving and growing to do. But when I have moved up at my job,
gotten a house, and become stable enough, I will have kids. My heart is big
enough, that once I have filled it with self love, it will spill over instead
of break, and it will fill as many other hearts as I can.
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