One of the most embarrassing moments of my life occurred when someone assumed I was my daughter’s caregiver. After our first music class in Georgia, the instructor casually remarked, “You can just tell Ava’s parents I’ll email them.” My face flushed, and my heart raced as I stammered, “I’m her mom.” The teacher quickly apologized, but as I gathered our shoes, another mother chimed in, “She probably said that because you look so youthful.” I managed a thanks and hurried out, tears finally spilling once I was far enough away to feel safe.
The teacher’s misunderstanding became clearer in the following weeks as she consistently mentioned “the moms, dads, and nanny.” I thought to myself, surely she couldn’t be referring to me, but it turned out she was. After one last awkward exchange where I reminded her of her mistake, Nanny-Gate 2014 came to a close.
When I first held my daughter, I began bracing myself for the assumption that she might not be mine. Yet, when it actually happened, it struck me during a time when I was grappling with postpartum depression, revealing an unexpected depth of grief. I had spent months feeling unprepared for motherhood and worried that I was failing her. My love for Ava was profound, which made me feel she deserved a better mother.
The individual who thought I was Ava’s nanny based their assumption on the color of her skin. When I married someone of a different ethnicity, I never considered that my daughter might not resemble me. My identity is clear on my skin, while Ava’s fair complexion and curly hair could easily lead to misconceptions about our family dynamics.
The error was glaring, layered with troubling racial implications. Yet, the true pain lay in my own thoughts: “Of course, she wouldn’t think I’m Ava’s mom. It’s because I’m just not good enough.” Having faced both subtle and overt racism throughout my life, the moment that truly shattered me was the denial of my motherhood.
It was one thing for me to doubt my role as a mom; it was another for someone else to invalidate it. I reflected on all that was taken from me by that one simple misjudgment, and I grieved.
After 23 hours of labor, Ava arrived, determined to change my life. As a newborn, she refused to sleep unless cradled in my arms, a challenge that lasted for weeks. Her severe reflux led us to the emergency room, where I found myself crying and calling 911, convinced she had stopped breathing when her body went rigid. Alongside my husband, I endured countless sleepless nights and spent nearly two years in a zombie-like state due to her restless sleeping habits. I was the one who breastfed her on demand for 21 months.
It wasn’t until I was mistaken for a nanny that I truly grasped the significance of the title “mom.” My reluctance to embrace motherhood stemmed more from self-doubt than anything else. After months of resisting this new role, I found a desire to own it with confidence. I wanted the world to recognize the battle scars that came with motherhood. Each day was a struggle, and I longed for validation of my hard work. I wanted not only to feel like a mom but to be acknowledged as one.
Gradually, I’m learning to believe that I am enough. The memory of being misidentified as Ava’s nanny inspires me to affirm my capabilities as a mother and reclaim my rightful place. I know that no one else could fulfill the role of Ava’s mother. There isn’t another white woman waiting to pick her up at the end of the day.
As Ava grows and engages with the world, I hope people will look beyond our skin color differences and recognize the bond we share as mother and daughter. I wish for her to never feel hurt by questions about why her mom is black. I hope she develops a self-identity that is free from limitations. I yearn for the acknowledgment I crave, and if it doesn’t come, I hope I have the strength to channel my inner Brandy and Monica and assert, “I’m sorry that you seem to be confused. She belongs to me. The girl is mine.”
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In summary, this poignant reflection on motherhood highlights the struggles of identity, race, and the desire for recognition within the complexities of familial relationships.