I wonder this all the time.
"What kind of mother am I?"
I have been pregnant and I've had a baby. I've raised that baby into toddlerhood and yet...
I feel like I'm not REALLY a mother. Like somebody is going to come in with a degree, a job, a mortgage and take Jack to a land of responsible parenting.
I wonder if I'm fucked up for liking sex and music and clothing. For enjoying wine and staying up late (sometimes). For cursing and wondering too much. Being unsatisfied with routine, finding it to be a shackle instead of something that children need. I heard that somewhere.
When I was pregnant I would have episodes where I'd cry for hours thinking I was going to damage the life that was thriving inside me. I thought that because I wasn't done growing up that my growing pains would effect him, make him hate me for bringing him into a world I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate in and sometimes fight with.
Sometimes I still think this. When I turn on Yo Gabba Gabba to finish a paragraph. When I lose my cool. When I tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight before slipping my feet into shoes not meant for motherhood and disappearing into the night to meet old friends in old places.
I am torn between being a MOTHER and being myself and combining the two in a decent balance. I feel like I'm getting there...reaching for the surface...finding clarity through the ripples.
I feel alone a lot. But I know that's a joke. I know that the mothers at the playground must all be grappling with the same thing. I have to think that because it will drive me crazy if I don't.
The thing is, in thinking I forgot to read the manual I also forget that there is none. Some days I have the answers and some days I don't. Some days I feel motherly and invincible while other days I wonder who these people are why they're calling me "mom" and "wife".
My name is Amanda. And I'm both.