I'm Not One of Those Moms
The other day the app on my phone that tells me what size fruit my baby is each week had a photo gallery of baby bumps throughout all 9 months of pregnancy. Seeing those cutesy mums taking mirrored selfies or holding their swollen midsections in front of countdown calendars made me feel sort of...well, “less than.”
Why wasn’t I counting down the months (other than anxiously awaiting the end of first trimester hell) or putting my belly proudly on display? Why didn’t I want to send beaming birth announcements or plan a flashy gender reveal? Why did those moms look so damn cute while most days I resembled a feral cat curled inconspicuously on the corner of the couch where I’ve made a temporary home?
Was my kid getting the short end of the “mom” stick because I wasn’t plastering my gut proudly on social media?
After careful consideration—and a few moments of panic—I concluded that NO, I’m not wrong to NOT want those things.
I’m just not that kind of mom.
I’ve spent a lot of time condemning myself—or being condemned by others—for choices I’ve made and what I want from life (going to Brazil for spiritual healing instead of seeing a doctor? Madness! Waiting until I was 36 to get pregnant? Insane!). I’ve felt wrong or out-of-step or the ever-popular “less than.” It’s easy to feel like I’m falling short if I compare myself to others...like me in smelly pajamas and crumbs on my chest gawking at women half my size gushing over their perfect little baby bumps and beach-wavy hair.
Yeah, the comparison game is shitty. I’m trying really hard not to play.
In the first trimester, as I’ve gone from feeling like an absolute superhero to a blobby mess stuck to the front of a Mack truck, I’ve had to let go of a lot of things—one of which is comparing myself to all the other moms who seem to be handling their pregnancies with poise and grace. Who knows? Maybe that frozen smile is hiding a husband who is indifferent to being a dad, or they bent over to vomit after snapping the picture, or there’s a pile of dirty laundry and a sink full of dishes they can’t bring themselves to wash just out of frame. Feeling insecure about all the things I can’t do while the sweet creature inside me literally sucks the life from my body, I’ve had to accept that my job, for now, is to grow a kid, and that means acting like a child myself: sleeping, eating, and going to the bathroom (when I can). The things I love that make me feel like more than a vessel—writing, reading, flossing, seeing friends—can wait just a little longer. I will be OK!
It’s also OK that I will probably NEVER be one of those moms that swoons and gushes over all things “baby.” If you ever see a baby bump selfie on my Facebook page, it will be followed by a snarky remark or the middle finger, not a proud smile. That’s just not me. I’d rather show my excitement over being a mom by making space in my home and life for the lime-sized nugget cooking in the womb I tried so desperately to clean. Clearing the clutter—physically and emotionally—from my home and life, and creating a safe and loving place for the kiddo to grow up in is what’s important. When I’m not bent over a toilet or forcing myself to eat second breakfast through the nausea, I’m online searching for the perfect crib, and trying to match paint colors with the rug I bought for the nursery the week I found out I was pregnant. I’m preparing, not sharing. Nesting, not #blessed-ing.
And that is really and truly A-OK! Because that’s just the kind of MOM I am.