Parenting
Sharp words can cut deeply. Just like tiny steel blades, they pierce through the heart, each jab leaving behind pain and sorrow. I’ve encountered these judgments before. I’ve faced the dismissive comments and felt overlooked.
“You only have one. You’re not a real mother.”
“Wow, you’re so fortunate to have just one!”
“Just wait until you have more than one; then you’ll understand the struggle.”
My heart feels the impact of those brass knuckles. I often suppress my response. No, I can’t imagine. Fortunate? I would have loved to have had another child, but my body won’t allow it. I know firsthand about changing diapers and sleepless nights with a colicky baby. The intense crying would start every Tuesday at 11 p.m. and last for two excruciating months. Those haunting wails echoed through the night until dawn. By 3 a.m., I would lay my child in his crib and step outside to weep. I prayed to God for relief for him. Even now, Tuesdays fill me with dread. Those agonizing nights persisted until Sunday, leaving us exhausted by Monday. He is my son. And yet, I’m still not considered a mother.
I’ve held my child when his fever hit 103°F. As the temperature climbed, I placed him in a cool bath, tears streaming down my face. He was unwell, and I felt helpless. I spent countless nights awake, watching him breathe, filled with worry during doctor visits. Medications never seemed to work fast enough. All I had to offer was a mother’s love. And still, I’m not deemed a real mother.
People I once considered friends have remarked, “She’s a decent parent.” I’ve made my share of mistakes; I don’t shy away from admitting them. Those poor choices still haunt me. I grasp the consequences of every decision I made during my struggles. Though I’ve been clean for nearly a decade, the stigma lingers. My child, the little boy I adore, is often excluded from gatherings and playdates. His mother is labeled a sinner. In a small town, forgiveness is rarely granted. And yet, I’m still not recognized as a mother.
Having just one child doesn’t grant you the title of “real mom.” Sleepless nights and constant work to ensure my son has clothes for Sunday services don’t matter. As a mom of an only child, I’m consistently checking his shoes for size, knowing how quickly boys’ feet grow. Summer flies by, and I worry about winter coats long before the season arrives. This concern haunts me even in July. And still, I’m not seen as a mother.
My boy is nearly out of his crib. Plans for a bigger room with play areas are underway. A cozy mushroom tent will serve as his reading nook. A bookshelf is growing, and I’m designing a space for music and art. Soon, he’ll have a room adorned with trees, clouds, and dandelions. A big boy’s room, complete with a blue quilt on a large bed, is on the horizon. And yet, I’m still not acknowledged as a mother.
Each night, I tuck my little boy in after reading a few stories and singing his favorite lullabies. I gaze at this ever-evolving child, my baby, and whisper, “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.” He responds, “Night-Night, Mama. Wuv you.”
To those who judge with sharp eyes, I may not fit your mold of motherhood. I have one child and a history filled with mistakes. But when my son reaches for my hand and asks, “Come here, Mama,” I follow, eager to explore the world through his eyes. I will always embrace that hand. I am the only woman he will ever know as his mother. I am a mother to him.
I am his mother.
I will always be his Misfit Mama.