When you hear the word “mom” or “mum” or “mother” or “motherly” or “maternal” what comes to mind? Does a feeling or an image instantly appear? I’m going to assume so. Whilst our projection and interpretations will be different, undeniably it’s a loaded word, packed with expectations, emotions, visualisations and values. Without doing anything, when someone claims the title of “mother” they are inheriting a lifetime of association, both self-created and societally burdened.

Without doing anything, when someone claims the title of “mother” they are inheriting a lifetime of association, both self-created and societally burdened.

My version of “maternal” and “mom” is wrapped up in this manufactured nostalgic image of a soft, loving, hyper feminine nurturer, soothing, patient and tactile. She smells like vanilla. Her clothes are shades of pastels, pinks, blues and lilacs. She wears 1950’s skirts and seems absolutely contented with her domestic life. For some reason she’s blonde in my mind, already a contradiction to my brunette self. As I explore her more, I discover she’s smart, with an attractive witty mind, but what separates her from me, is how calm she is in her role. Sincerely fulfilled. I am not.

Today my version of motherhood is a black three-day old tracksuit with a few tears, avocado and baby puree stains, underarm BO, a tied back low bun of dry hair, very much in need of love and attention.

I feel like I’m failing my motherhood gig.

I feel like I’m failing my motherhood gig. Most days I feel like my son deserves better than me, that he would find greater happiness with the fabricated fifties devoted housewife, than his overly career ambitious, hyper creative, emotionally dynamic mom. To wake up every day feeling like a failure of “the one job” I’ve been assigned, is killing me slowly. I struggle to reconcile the woman I was a year ago to the person I am today. Small mindless tasks overwhelm me. To think not long ago, I was writing sample social media posts for Hilary Clinton and on zooms with Reese Witherspoon. Today there is withering and spooning, but not type that empowers me. Even putting nappy rash on my son’s skin is pushing me over the edge. Where is that capable woman? How can someone so brilliant and able, be falling apart at the tiny adorable feet of a helpless, curious human?

I love my son, more than anything in this world, more than myself but I hate being a “mom”… it’s that word. That impossible, multi-layered, highly consequential word.

I love my son, more than anything in this world, more than myself but I hate being a “mom”… it’s that word. That impossible, multi-layered, highly consequential word.

I had a pretty shitty “mom” growing up. Incapable of meeting any emotional need I had. She was and continues to be wrapped in her own drama. At 41, I still live fairly invisible in her shadow, I wear the neglectful scars of her narcissism throughout my waking hours. I barely feature beyond a talking point amongst her friends (women who I generally adore), minimal placations of my career success, but in terms of meeting me as me, truly creating a strong sense of self value in who I am as a person, it never has and never will exist.

So with poor role modelling - I did, what a lot of people do, outsourced my understanding of a what a mother could be to books, movies and other peoples parents. I ignored the evil step mother trope and narrowed in on every idealised version of motherhood I could find. The stronger the ‘perfect’ version of ‘motherhood’ I developed, the more I would set myself up to crack in the future. I’m sure this infallible image did not help my biological mother either, if I was incapable of meeting my own standard, my own mother had zero chance of passing.

So, if I can’t be a “mom”, who can I be?

I love my son. I love loving him. I feel honoured to be his parent and to know him and am so curious about the personality that is developing behind his ocean blue eyes. I love watching him explore the world and I enjoy aiding him in his discovery. I feel an incredible sense of accomplishment when I make him giggle and introduce him to something new and experiential. I want to protect him, adventure with him, converse with him and give him the sense of safety, security and esteem that was denied to me. I want to give him my everything and his everything, I just can’t do it 24/7. So what does that make me?

Am I a part time mom? A pseudo-mom? A CEO mom? Am I even a mom? Is there another word that exists that allows me to be exactly who I am without shame?

Today I don’t have an answer.

I’m on the search for her, I will let you know when we find each other.

Written by Danielle Lauren