Q: What Makes Me A Mother?

A:  Funny, I was wondering that same thing myself.

Earlier this month I wrote a post for the blog exchange about a light-hearted debate that I had with my husband, regarding when 'a pregnant woman' becomes a 'mother.'  It was a funny little piece about a joke.  But really, it made me think, at what precise moment does that moniker apply?  Is it when you see that second pink line on the pee-drenched stick?  When you get sick in the morning (or *hem* all day)?  When you hit the *magic* 12 week mark?  When you begin to show?  The first time you feel a kick?  When you see the sonogram picture of your baby waving at you? 

Or, is it that you're not considered a 'mother' until you carry a baby to term and deliver it, healthy, into the world? 

It seems, somehow, a cruel distinction.

How many people do you know who have had difficulties conceiving?  I've known many.  Too many.  It's uncomfortable for me to admit that at 38 and trying to conceive for the first time, I feared that I may be among their numbers.  And along with gratitude and relief, there exists a teensy bit of 'empathic shame' (a new term, there) that I am not. 

How many people do you know who have suffered difficulties carrying a baby to term and delivering it, healthy, out into the world?  Even one is too many, isn't it?  Isn't her pain cut from the same cloth as any bereaved mother's?  Isn't it the same fabric, the same pattern, even?  I imagine that it feels the same, as it slips through her fingers.

As I type this, I am 34 weeks and 5 days pregnant.

My pregnancy has been fraught with complications that have been both emotionally and physically challenging in a way that has been heretofore unknown to me.  And although the major and multi-phasic pregnancy sickness prevented weight gain and made me practically physically disabled (and desperately despairing at times), it didn't threaten the pregnancy.  Or the baby.  She's been steadily growing and taking what she needs despite the meager offerings that she's been given. 

The highlight for me, in this experience has been the unexpected attachment that I've felt to this little wiggling crazy girl inside me.  I say that the attachment was unexpected.  Intellectually, of course, I understood that she would be in there, that I would feel her move and that I would have an attachment to her.  It's the breath-taking emotional gravity of this attachment that caught me off guard.  It's so fierce.  It's so gripping.  It's a little surreal to me, a combination of joy, tenderness, reassurance and protective love.  It spikes, this feeling, whenever she gets the hiccups.  When I hear her heartbeat at the midwife's office.  When she moves, pressing against me twice, pushing my own skin into my palm.

I'll tell you a secret, if you promise never to tell anyone.

I was afraid that I didn't have a maternal instinct.  I was ambivalent about the prospect of having children at all, until we came to the now-or-never part.  I didn't want never, so I chose now.  I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to find the bond to the one on the inside. 

The Man reminded me of that the other day, when we were waxing romantic and puppy-lovish about our little girl.  He said, 'Remember back in the beginning when you were worried about not being able to bond, or whatever?'  I thought back and it felt like a distant memory, a story that someone had told me once.  I nodded.  'Look at you now,' he said, 'you have, like, a whole relationship with her already.'  It made me think how these months have looked to him.  To a father.  She's his, too, of course. 

But she's in me.  With me every minute.  Of every day.  We go everywhere together.

And he's right, you know.  I feel it all the way down to my bones. 

I do have a whole relationship with her already.

I am her mother.

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I am joining my BFF in posting on What Makes You A Mother today.  She's sponsoring a contest through the Parent Bloggers Network, in combination with Light Iris.  Join in and send your link to parentbloggers@gmail.com for the round up!

Comments

[Naomi]

I worried about not having any maternal instincts, too. I think it all just gushes out at once kind of like afterbirth...

good luck with the birth, I am sure you will do great.

[jodi]

read often, never commented before.

Beautful post.

[mothergoosemouse]

Why should your concern about your apparent lack of maternal instinct be a secret? I wish more women would talk about their ambivalence.

Unless, of course, you and I are the only ones who ever felt that way. ;)

[mel]

So beautiful. And so true. I know way to many mothers...including myself...who have suffered losses. I do believe they are moms just the same.

34 weeks?!?! I am so excited for you. It really does get even better (well, mostly).

[Damselfly]

Did you ever watch the episode of Friends when Monica and Chandler wanted to adopt a child and he said, "She's a mother without a baby," or something like that? I think there are a lot of mothers who don't have children (yet). But still, I can relate to not feeling you have a maternal instinct. Like you, I think mine kicked in later, too.

[Jan]

When I was pregnant with my son, I remember calling my sister and saying, "Our poor husbands! We have it all over them! They can be great dads but...these babies grew inside US. They are OURS. It's not even our husbands' fault. It just is what it is." And she totally agreed. But I don't tell my husband this. There isn't really anything he can do about it. It's just my special secret.

[Jenn]

beautiful write :) happy mother day!

[Matt]

That was really, really good. Some of us guys might be a tad jealous.

[Kelly]

What a lovely post. And it reminds me of a 'debate' I had with my husband as well, which I won't go into because it's a tad on the depressing side. But suffice it to say that I felt, ultimately, it was something he could never understand, through no fault of his own, what it was like to gestate a being inside oneself. And how attached you can get, feeling their little feet and fists pushing against their first home, feeling them hiccup, change positions. And when we put our hands to our bellies, trying to hug in the only way possible, it is a sign of so much good to come.

[the new girl]

K--
Dream away. In fact, if you tell him you had a dream about his butt, he may even allow you to have another chance at 'placing your hand upon it.' (It can't have been a 'one time only' offer.) I'm thinking this time, the thought wouldn't make you laugh/cry at all...

lmao.

[Kristen]

What a lovely caring husband you have.

:)

I promise not to dream about him.

[Daisymom]

Wait until she comes out. It gets even better then.

[Amy]

Well said!

[slouching mom]

such a lovely, true take on the question.

and now i must go write my own (i was away and computerless: tragic).