The (im)perfect Mother
As many of you know, I am the mother of two incredible boys. Oliver will be one this Halloween, and Ben recently turned 10 years old. I never imagined I would have children 9 years apart. After my divorce, when Ben was almost 4, I wasn’t sure I would even have another child at all. That’s the funny thing about life, it doesn’t really care what you expect, it just happens.
I remember telling Ben I was pregnant, and watching his excitement start with a small smile, then quickly grow into a toothy grin. I had placed a sesame seed in his hand and told him that it was the same size as the baby in my tummy. I was thrilled, and terrified. Doesn’t that sum up motherhood? The greatest joy, paired with incredible apprehension and uncertainty. I was 19 when I found out I was pregnant with Ben, and I was fortunate in a way to be so young. I hadn’t yet experienced enough of life to truly understand what I was about to endure. I wasn’t yet aware of how deeply I would love, and how intensely I would question myself through the experience of becoming a mother. I was slightly more prepared with Oliver, at least mentally, but even with Oliver, I have discovered distinct, new layers of myself. Although, I don’t doubt myself nearly as much this time around, which I am thankful for.
About 7 months pregnant with Oliver.
Motherhood is a journey, and even that word doesn’t seem to do it justice. For me, it has at times strained the very fabric of my being. I have never been certain if there is a “right” or “wrong” way to parent, despite what social media may say. With my sweet, brilliant Ben, I had to let go of any and all expectations as well as any pieces of advice, however well-intentioned. When Ben was diagnosed with Autism at almost 3 years old, it was a shock, but also a relief. I was relieved to have a name to call what we were going through, and relieved to have a plan. In retrospect, other than the fear of what it all meant for Ben, and for myself, the most challenging part of his diagnosis was learning to let go of everything I had expected motherhood to be. I found myself in the position of having to completely shift the direction we were heading in, and embrace the unknown. At the time it was purely a survival mechanism, I had to adapt to each day and learn as much as I could. Now, it feels like the experience was responsible for shaping me into the mother I am today. The unknown made me a more empathetic and patient mother, even if I doubted myself every step of the way.
I think it is easy to forget sometimes that our children, while they may be genetic reflections of ourselves, are really just as complex and unique as we are. My experience with Oliver has been completely different in some ways, and eerily similar in others. We didn’t discover Oliver’s tongue and lip tie until he was 4 months old. Which meant once they were released he had to relearn how to take a bottle. In the last year, we have received support from nearly as many therapists and specialists as I received with Ben. It wasn't at all how I imagined this year to be, and for the longest time, I resented that my motherhood experience didn’t look like all the other mothers I knew. It was difficult to not wonder what I had done, or if I hadn’t done enough in some way. While I was navigating all of my emotions around my expectations, what I didn’t realize was that I was embodying two of the less favorable pillars of motherhood. Guilt, and comparison.
I am not sure where we, as mothers, got this idea that we had to be perfect. I mean, raising children is incredibly messy work, and I am not just referring to the copious amounts of spit up and poopy diapers. We are essentially teaching little humans to become functioning people, who can then go out into the world and live fulfilling lives. I don’t know about you, but I am still in the thick of learning how to live a fulfilling life for myself. We are teaching our children to navigate their emotions, how to communicate and how to exist in the world with many different kinds of people. These are skills that can take a lifetime to master, and somehow we, as mothers, manage to fill our minds with doubt at every turn. I don’t believe we are meant to be perfect. I think we are meant to simply be. At any given moment, we are meant to be present with our children, and ourselves. I am not sure it is possible to do it any other way, at least that is what I have found.
I don’t say this lightly, or with the assumption that it is easy by any means. I say it as a reminder for myself, and any other mother who is struggling with the pressures of modern motherhood. Perfection is a myth. Imperfection is the closest we will get, and that isn’t a bad thing. Imperfection is real, and raw, and tangible. It is the mess of the kitchen after breakfast, little ones happily fed and precious faces, sticky with pancake syrup. It is the toys strewn across the floor after a long day of entertaining curious minds. It is the hug from your teenage son, his hair sweaty and his cheeks flushed as he squeezes you briefly before running out the door to practice on his new skateboard again. It is the contentment of rocking your baby to sleep, and dozing off with them in your arms, even though you know you need to do that load of laundry and finish up the work you didn’t get to earlier. It is soaking in every giggle and sloppy kiss from your children, because you know, for at least that moment, that whatever else happens, you have them, and they have you, and that fleeting moment is pure, imperfect magic.