Mom Material

If you asked my son what his mom is made of he would probably say mostly iced coffee, which is basically true, but underneath all of that he also has a mom who is strong, loving and a little sarcastic (not to brag on myself too much but I am pretty awesome). To my son my “mom material” is soft, gentle and warm. It wraps him up when he is scared and it tickles him and makes him laugh while we play. To my husband my “mom material” is supportive and organized. It makes all the doctor’s appointments, remembers both of our important passwords and keeps our home from completely falling apart from all the chaos that may try to leak in. To me my “mom material” is protective and appreciated, it took years of struggle to create it and now it is woven with resilience to be able to handle the hard days (of which there are many) while also being flexible enough to enjoy the joyous moments (of which there are more).

However, to a stranger on the street, my mom material may appear rough, dark and different- a material that couldn’t possibly be suited for a baby. How could a material that looks like this be capable of accomplishing all the things that a mother is suppose to do? But that’s the things about material, you can’t always tell it’s purpose just by looking at it.

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In the wise words of my mother “you can’t have a strong-willed adult without first having a strong-willed child” and god did she get strong-willed my whole life. That being said it has always been important to me to maintain who I was, in all area of my life and in all the things I did. Even starting in high school, I wore Vans or Converse to each of my proms, then went on just a few years ago to wear a pair in my wedding as well. When I was a practicing therapist I gave into the cardigan wearing cliché, but underneath that cardigan was typically a band or graphic tee. One of my favorite professional dress moves was matching different colors of classic low-rise Vans to my sweaters- fashion icon if you ask me. I also openly showed my tattoos in school and in the workplace, they each had such great stories and I told anyone who asked about them.

As I got older my hobbies and interests also stayed the same. My playlist is still basically the same as it was ten years ago and I unapologetically listen to Blink-182 with the windows down on the way home. In my house I still have herbs, crystals and a few other spookier things that I have collected and loved since I was young. My wall décor is sarcastic and occasionally features bad words and in my office there are books filled with some of my favorite pictures from photoshoots I did before getting pregnant.

I remember a few summers ago I had a conversation with an angry mom from our suburban neighborhood when her kids came home and used the word “shit show” after reading it on our door hanger (it says something along the lines of “Welcome to the Shit Show, hope you brought alcohol”- got it at a craft fair, so cute right). “Just wait till you have kids, you’ll have to knock all this stuff off and be a grown up,” she said. But I already was a grown up I reminder her. I had a job, I paid my taxes, I could by cigarettes if I felt like it and I owned a home in the same neighborhood she did soooooo, bye ma’am no thank you.

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Then the day came that she had been waiting for, I was finally going to be a parent. That baby was growing away and planning to make his debut early the next year. I remember right at the beginning of my pregnancy bracing myself, here it comes, you’re going to be a mom now so obviously you’re going to go through some intense metamorphosis and sprout a whole new personality.

But nope, nothing yet.

As the days went on and I got more and more pregnant, I kept waiting. I’m not sure what exactly I was waiting for but I assumed it looked something like the women’s casuals’ section of a JC Penney’s and smelt like potpourri. However, a few months in I realized that this fundamental change to who I was may not ever come. One day I was trying on maternity clothes with my mom in Target because little man was getting to be not so little anymore, or rather, middle sized mommy was getting to be not so middle sized anymore. We picked out a few of the tried and true options like a flowy shirt with the tie under your chest, some straight leg jeans, all the t-shirts that were gathered on the sides. Oh yeah, here it was, the moment where I would (maybe) start feeling like who I was supposed to be now. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt more disconnected than ever.

“God, I look like someone’s mom,” came right out of my mouth and then my mother reminded me “well you are someone’s mom” while glancing at my very obvious baby bump.

So, reluctantly, we bought a few outfits and went home. The next day I even got dressed in all the new threads and headed to work, despite feeling like I was wearing the equivalent of a clown costume compared to my normal clothes. I went to work, got lunch, ran errands and all day people smiled at me and made passing comments about how exciting having a baby was. It was honestly pleasant, but something just felt off or insincere about it all. When I got home, I changed my clothes quickly and cried to my husband about my mini-identity crisis.

God bless that man for riding the waves with me, but after explaining myself we put the clothes back in bag and went on amazon order extenders for my existing jeans and a size up in some t-shirts I liked. A few days later I pulled my new XL Neck Deep shirt over my bump I was overcome with feelings of love not only for my son in there, but also for all the work I was doing everyday to grow our family. I was a mom, nothing needed to change, nothing had to be different. That person staring back from the mirror was exactly who his mom was meant to be already.

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From that day forward I just did my thing the same way I had always done it. I started buying matching pairs of vans, they were so tiny and I couldn’t wait to coordinate our outfits. There are a shit ton of edgy baby onesies online and I quickly collected ones from a few of my favorite bands for him. We listened to my playlists in the car and I would sing to him all the songs that had gotten me through my life before him. I unfortunately felt like his first mosh pit because he would often kick happily along the whole time. I even took him along with me, as if he had a choice at this point, to a few shows! I was absolutely loving every minute of my pregnancy, but others were not and they had plenty to say about it.

“Wow his wardrobe doesn’t have any color, why don’t you want to just dress him like a normal baby? Do you see the people you’re hanging around aren’t you worried they are unsafe? Some mom acting like a teenager instead of growing up and getting ready for this responsibility.” So, when he gets older how are you going to hide all those pictures of you from his friends? You’re going to embarrass him someday looking like that at parent-teacher conferences.

It was infuriating to hear these harsh comments and even more to hear the more passive aggressive ones hidden in niceties. All of these people, ones I didn’t know and even ones I did know, were taking a glance at my life, the bits and pieces posted on social media or the small parts told to them by other people, and forming massive opinions not only who I was but also of my abilities as a mother.

Needless to say it pissed me off for many reasons.

What they didn’t know was a lot of the songs I played him were about overcoming struggles and feelings the feelings I had become all too familiar with on our journey to him. They didn’t know how long I had waited to have the opportunity to buy baby clothes for a child that actually existed and was coming. They didn’t know that at every concert or show I went to the other people in attendance made sure I found a seat, got to the front of the bathroom line when needed and that the bartender passed me free sprites all night for my unsettled stomach. These things that they saw as tough or mean or dangerous, were actually the most soft, kind and caring things they could wish for. But because I wasn’t acting or looking like what they thought good mom should, I was automatically not a good mom at all. Bullshit- huh?

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Let’s back track to thinking about mom material, I’m not wanting to make anyone feel like an inanimate object here but I this metaphor works well with what I’m going for- so roll with me for a minute okay?

Traditionally, different materials were created to serve different purposes. Denim was made to be tough and withstand wear and tear, leather was also strong and able to keep things safe and protected. So, while a cowboy does look good in those Wrangler jeans and Ariat boots, he’s also able to not ruin his clothes or lose a toe while riding his horse around. In ancient Egypt they had “royal linens” to dress their rulers in, but conveniently linen also did a very effective job of helping them not die from heat stroke in the literal desert. With these examples in mind, the function of the materials mattered first and the look of the material mattered second. So why does all of that go out the freaking window when we start using this word as a way to describe a mom?

I may have tattoos and piercings, wear weird t-shirts with skinny jeans from 2013, and listen to what I recently heard dubbed “elder emo rock” (which made me want to barf) but all of this takes nothing away from my sons life. I still care for him every day, comfort him when he is sad, take him to experience as many things as possible, buy him toys to help him learn and food to keep him full of nutrients. I educate myself on the newest topics in child development, I adjusted our home to keep him safe and I love him with more of my heart than I ever knew existed. My “materials” purpose is to create a happy, healthy and kind person- so why does it matter what it looks like if it’s getting all those jobs done?

You guessed it- it absolutely freaking doesn’t at all.

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So, if you ever find yourself making assumptions about another mom when you see how she looks- don’t. And the next time you feel judged by what your mom material might look like to others, remember what it’s purpose is in the first.