I have a lot of doubt. I can’t believe I’m going to be a… mother. I don’t know why the word is so unappealing to me - I love my own mom, I love plenty of other people’s moms. But I recoil when I think of the role that is about to be thrust upon me. It’s not the child associated with it-- I’m looking forward to that part. I guess it’s the image of motherhood, and being lumped into that collective image by others now and forever.
The media-created idea of motherhood: Special K with red berries. Chambray shirts and Keds. Lisol. Glade Plug-ins. That not so fresh feeling. Lunchables. Oprah’s book club. Lifetime Television for Women. Ponytail. Eye cream. Catalogs. Playtex bras. Hamburger Helper.
I’m terrified that despite my best efforts, I will either somehow become an unwitting part of this demographic, or will be associated with it by everyone I meet once they know I have a child. So what if people assume that? Why does that bother me, despite knowing that I’m not that person? I’ve struggled to put my finger on ever since I found out I was pregnant. What I have arrived at is a sad realization that I proscribe to the very stereotype I am so afraid to be apart of.
I associate that soccer mom, minivan, press-on nails, Sunny D, relaxed fit jeans image with the thing I dread the most, mediocrity. It’s not that I think I’m an exceptional person - it’s that I’m sure that I’m not. I’ve been looking over my shoulder nervously my entire adult life because I know that I’m one soul-sucking decision or action away from becoming part of the hoard. I’ve worked a meaningless office job for nine years. I’ve been a slave to low self esteem and negative body image since I was in grade school. Despite my best efforts, it’s everything I can do to disassociate my self-worth from my appearance -- and most of the time I fail. I know I’m intelligent, principled, freethinking, but that’s just not enough to make me confident in my own identity. It’s pretty pathetic, but I need to know that other people know I’m not like everybody else. Because if they don’t… then am I?
Enter the specter of motherhood. The preconceived notion of what that entails is my worst nightmare. I imagine it as a state of being where there is room for a singular obsession - your kid - and every other defining characteristic of your identity that does not correspond to that obsession fades away, leaving you bland and dispassionate about everything that once made you who you are. If I’m only thinking of my child, and only able to devote my time and energy and finances to taking care of her, what happens to… me? In a way, making the decision to keep this baby felt like making an appointment for a lobotomy nine months in the future that I don’t have the option of canceling.
And now I have nine months to think about everything that I could possibly lose as a result.
I really do understand how non-Zen it is of me to be so attached to my self, especially considering how much loathing I’ve felt for that self most of my life. But if I get a baby lobotomy, I fear that I’m going to be vulnerable to that boring, mindless, mediocre mommy role. I’ll have no defenses. No attachment to that semi-cool person I used to be. I’ll lose myself, I’ll lose any iota of sexual desirability I may have had, Tom will leave me for some unique, attractive, non-baby-crazy girl, my friends will be bored by my constant baby stories and inability to do anything without toting my kid along, and then I’ll be alone with the kid and the television and the pantry. And when I get lonely or bored, I eat. And when I eat I fall into a pit of despair. And when I fall into the pit, I sleep or watch TV. And when I watch TV I see moms in Chambray shirts and Keds disinfecting counter tops and smiling knowingly about maxi pads and making big batches of high fructose corn syrup laden baked goods from boxes. And then I grab a shovel and dig the pit a little deeper. Oh mother/I can feel/the soil falling over my head…
I know plenty of awesome ladies with kids, so I know I am a retard for buying into this. It’s insulting to them and women in general that I have such a skewed opinion about motherhood as it relates to individuality, vitality, creativity. My fear perpetuates the stereotype I so desperately want to prove wrong.
Knowing all that, I’m still freaked the fuck out. My life as I know it feels like it's about to be over. In many ways I'm glad, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that a large part of me is terrified. Where’s that shovel…
