I’m not a mom.
And because I’m not a mom, I know that I’ll have other moms tell me that I have no right to talk about “mom things” until I’ve experienced eighteen excruciating hours of labor with no epidural, have a stomach that was once tight become riddled with stretch marks and have watched my ass inflate three times the size.
But, because I’m not a mom, I feel like I can imagine what it would be like if I were to be one. I imagine that I’d be the kind of mom my kids’ friends would love. I’d be kind of like my own mom – charmingly funny with a witty yet almost nauseating sense of humor. I’d be way too comfortable hanging within my kids’ circle of friends, just like she was. I would cringe sometimes at her god awful jokes and her repetitiveness to an almost unnerving degree of asking us if we ever needed refills on lemonade, all the while simultaneously break out into an awkward compilation of dance moves that contorted her body in ways that I didn’t think was humanly possible. Now, I kind of dig her for that. She’s cool. As Karen’s mom would say, “She’s not a regular mom. She’s a cool mom.”
That’s the kind of mom I know I’d be. I’d be the cool mom but to the certain extent of what that definition means. If being cool could at all be construed as slightly off beat, overprotective, “please honey, let me tell you about all my life lessons and tell me about your day and I’ll pick you up at the mall at promptly 9:00PM and you THINK I’m being ridiculous but I’m just so over the top in love with you that the thought of ever wasting a second not ensuring your safety” is cool – then I’m all set. I know there will come a time when my currently non-existent children hate me, but that’s the natural and unfortunate part of life. Give them twenty years and they’ll say they want to be just like me when they become moms (and dads). And then the thought of me becoming a grand mom? Those future grandkids will be so spoiled.
As I said, I’m not a mom. I have no true right to talk about mom things. But, sometimes I get so annoyed with those soon to be moms who complain about the pregnancy process. I hear all too often the aggravated complaints and sighs of grief over how much weight they’re putting on. HELLO! You’re growing a baby! It’s not like you’re like oh man, I went ahead and ate that whole dozen of crispy crèmes and now its time for new pants. No – you’re harvesting life. Squirming, pooping, will cry too much life. You’re carrying a life that has so much potential for greatness, because with you as their parent, that’s ultimately what you want.
I’m not a mom. I know that there will be moms who say that my thoughts are well and good – that my intentions are admirable, but that I have no idea how it feels to watch yourself grow bigger, to grow out of your clothes, have your feet swell up too sizes, your breasts swell up three, and to have your head constantly buried inside a toilet. They’re right. I have no idea what being a mom is like, and I’m sure that the pregnancy process and what soon follows after has its’ moments of incredible vulnerability and dissatisfaction.
But when that moment comes, I hope my head is buried in the toilet every time it needs to be. I hope that I grow out my pants sixteen weeks in (or sooner!) and I hope that I become so uncomfortable that by the time my ninth month rolls around, I’ll look over at my husband with scolding eyes, reminding him that this was all his fault and maybe make him sleep on the couch for one, three, even five straight nights.
And then my water will break, and suddenly all that negativity, all the sickness, anxious worry, all that extra hassle, all that time that was possibly wasted on focusing on all the horrible changes suddenly makes all the good ones come into clear focus. And looking back at me will be this most amazing person I never knew I already carried so much love for. He’ll be this tiny, squirming, pooping little booger who I only pray has his father’s eyes and his gentle soul and maybe, if he’s lucky, my zany sense of humor. I know it’ll be a process I won’t wait to want to start again.
As I said, I’m not a mom.