Not the Mama

Anya turned nine months the other day, which means she has officially been on the outside longer than she was on the inside. The event has given rise to a certain amount of introspection on my part and, though I should know better, I find myself fighting off guilt for not living up to my own expectations. After nine months of motherhood, all I know for sure is what kind of mom I’m not.

Breast Is Best Mom

When I was pregnant, I watched these breastfeeding instructional videos demonstrating correct technique. The demo shows a woman holding a newborn and discussing the essentials with her lactation expert. When it’s time to do the deed, mommy dearest disrobes to reveal these ridiculously large nunga nungas. (I’m serious. Just one of those things could double as a scarf in cold weather.) When showing the proper way to latch, she picks up the boob in one hand like a pastry bag and pops it in the baby’s mouth. As if that wasn’t enough to make me writhe with envy, her nipples were so perfectly shaped she could have written her name in colostrum on her release papers. 

For anatomical as well as other reasons, that wasn’t my experience. But I really wanted it to be. I wanted the cuddling and the little baby cheek against my chest. I wanted the economy and the convenience of being a walking milk jug. I wanted the weight loss and the immune system benefits. Instead, I’m on the losing side of breastfeeding guerrilla warfare. If Anya’s asleep, I can sometimes convince her to nurse. Otherwise, she uses my nipple as a handrail to launch herself off my lap like some daredevil infant gymnast. 

Stay at Home Mom or Working Mom

My mom was a stay-at-home mom and having her around all the time was one of the best things about my childhood. While I wanted that opportunity for myself, relative earning potential between me and Ruyman always slanted toward me being the breadwinner and him the caregiver. Not ideal, but I figured so long as one us was raising our daughter full time, it was no big deal.

That said, I never anticipated metamorphosing into an entirely different creature: the mater otiosi, an animal which frequents poor economies and feeds off food stamps and the occasional block of government cheese. Commonly known as the “welfare mom”, the mater otiosi is distinguished from the mater domesticus by its unique hunting call: “I’m interested in the opening at your company.” Though its only natural predator is the pater judicem, which feeds off the animal’s sense of dignity, the mater otiosi’s survival is threatened by others of its kind due to the fierce competition for limited resources.

(Yeah, I watch a lot of Animal Planet. It helps me keep perspective. Even if I don’t get the job, my offspring doesn’t literally get eaten.)

Feminine Mom

Like many women, I used to watch that show What Not to Wear. The premise is simple: some dumpy schlub gets outed as a fashion reprobate by her friends and in return for the humiliation gets $10,000 worth of fabulous new duds. A staple guest on the show is the frumpy mom who thinks sweat pants are the answer to every wardrobe dilemma and that white sneakers transcend time, space, and social venue. “That poor soul,” I’d think. “She really let herself go. When I have kids, that is SO not going to be me.” 

Fast forward half a decade. I’m sitting here in yoga pants and a mismatched t-shirt, not because I’m fashionably inept (despite what my sisters-in-law may think) but because, dang it, they’re the only clothes I have left that fit. It was a choice between the sweats or the maternity clothes and my self-esteem couldn’t handle another nine months in fat girl pants. So instead I became buddies with any garment that listed the word “spandex” on the label and sported an elastic waiste band. I realize now that it’s not a question of letting yourself go or not. It’s a simple question of finances. With a daughter growing out of clothes every two weeks, who can afford a new wardrobe that, in all likelihood, will be covered in baby puke before you can say “Mom jeans?” 

Churchy Mom or Literary Mom

If there was ever an institution to give moms a ton of advice on how to raise good kids, it would be the LDS church. Ruyman and I have been members our whole lives (by choice, by the way, and not due to enculturation or brainwashing). Lord willing, Anya will someday develop a testimony of her own. So what am I doing to help her with that? Do I sing her songs about Jesus and tell her scripture stories? Nah. Her nightly lullaby is either “Mr. Johnny Verbeck,” whose title character is the dog catcher equivalent of Sweeney Todd, or “The Little Green Frog,” which culminates in the frog getting hit by a very large truck. Yep. We go for faith-promoting stuff in our family.  I think the most religious thing I’ve done with Anya is move a refrigerator magnet with a picture of Jesus on it down to knee height so she can see it as she toddles by. 

Considering I am (was?) an English teacher, early literacy is something I know lots about. So do I read with my kid like research says? Nah. I toss her a book and let her chew on it and rip out the pages while I cook dinner. Quality interactions with reading, let me tell you.

Zen Mom

If this was one of those blog posts that gets shared on Facebook, this would be the point where I’d talk about my journey toward self acceptance and how I’ve realized that my best is good enough. I’d write some heartwarming last paragraph about how motherhood is the greatest, most beautiful thing that’s happened to me. Don’t get me wrong - that part is true. I love my daughter more than anything and that feeling just gets stronger with every day. But it is also the most exhausting, draining, agonizing, and humbling thing I’ve ever done. And while I can’t say it with confidence today, I hope that someday I’ll be satisfied with just being the me version of Mom. 

At the very least, it’s a lot more likely than me fitting into my size 0 jeans again.