I am an ‘unnatural’ mother
Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash
At 36 years of age the words “I'm going to the bathroom” have come to mean more than just that.
It means: “I need you to keep the little human alive for five minutes, because I need a five-minute break. I need a five-minute break to stuff my face with a cereal bar that I feel too guilty eating in front of the little human. I need a five-minute break from being tugged at, hugged, touched. I need a five-minute break to scroll through my social media feed without being scorned at because I am not giving the little human my 100% attention.”
I've spent countless nights, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his next feeding break (I gave up on restful sleep somewhere between the third and fourth month of his existence), thinking “I'm not a natural mother”.
And if you've ever been there, you know it's a slippery slope. What have I done? Have I ruined two lives? His and mine? If you've ever been there, you know how it ends. You either silently cry yourself to sleep or go check whether the little human is still breathing.
At least you're doing one good thing: keeping him alive. Because I seem to fail at everything else that should come naturally to a mother.
Pre-birth fears
It started from before the little human was born. Acutely suffering from pedophobia and pediophobia, I knocked on the door of the mental wellbeing midwives at Mater Dei as soon as I was told we were having a boy four years ago. As corny as it sounds, they were lifesavers, and I continued dropping by after the little human was born.
One of the things they wrote on the blue card that expectant mothers take with them to the labour ward was “wipe down baby before handing it to the mother”.
That is when it first hit me: Am I an unnatural mother?
“And when the midwife handed me my son, I waited for that sudden magic spark of motherhood, but instead, I was overcome by a sense of fear for this tiny, naked, slimy being: what had I done?”
I started maternity leave on the very day I gave birth. I was made to feel I didn’t care about the wellbeing of the being I was carrying. If I was going to become a truly caring mother, I should have stopped working a week before, nested, and prepared for the arrival of the little human.
And when the midwife handed me my son, I waited for that sudden magic spark of motherhood, but instead, I was overcome by a sense of fear for this tiny, naked, slimy being: what had I done? How could I have brought a vulnerable being into this cruel, cruel world? How am I going to protect him from cars on busy roads? How could I protect him from heartbreak? From bullying, harassment, false allegations of molestation?
I truly am an unnatural mother, I thought.
Doing our best
I returned to work when he was just four months. I did it for the money… but I did it mainly for myself. Becoming a mother does not mean I am no longer a journalist, a writer, and activist. Sometimes I took him with me to work – an interview, a conference, a protest. And I was just stared at.
I continued travelling for work. The first thing people ask is where “I left him”. I continued travelling for leisure. Together we’ve been on 10 trips across three continents. Every time I am warned: “but he won’t remember any of this! Why don’t you postpone travelling until he can remember?”
And I always wonder: “but what about me? What about making my own memories? What if I’m not able to travel when he is of an age when he will remember all his trips?” Does travelling at one, two, three years of age stop him from travelling when he is of an age where he will remember? No.
But it confirmed I am an unnatural mother.
And when I dropped off the little human at nursery, I saw all other parents sigh with relief: “I can finally have a break,” they said. They were glad childcare centres don’t go on summer vacation. I just bawled my eyes out every time I dropped him off. My son didn’t shed a tear.
“It took me nearly four years to realise that the ‘natural’ in mother is irrelevant. What’s important is that I am a mother. And that my son knows it.”
I was so confused: once again, I did not feel the same way all these other mothers were feeling: I am truly an unnatural mother. It took me nearly four years to realise: my son has never had a tantrum with me. He whines, he nags, but he understands when I explain a situation that he is unhappy with.
My son firmly asks the balloon man for a heart or a puppy, when they try to hand him a sword or a gun. At three, my son stands up to the taunters flaunting their straight hair. He tells them: “I have curly hair and it’s beautiful. I love it.”
At three my son can name all the solar system planets, describe their surface and climate, and mention a few dwarf planets too. He will tell you that you need to take care of Earth, and he always throws his rubbish in the bin.
At three, my son warns me of any people who are making him uncomfortable with their stares or their phone pointed at him, and he asks me whether he can accept candy offered by a stranger.
From as long as he could communicate, my son has always called for me, and always found comfort in my lap. I am doing more than keeping the little human alive. I’m helping him grow into a decent human being.
And most of us are trying our best at doing this. Whether we get the approval of those around us is irrelevant. We are doing it in our own way. It took me nearly four years to realise that the ‘natural’ in mother is irrelevant. What’s important is that I am a mother. And that my son knows it.
About the author: Sarah Carabott spends most of her time telling other people’s stories through art, music, protest banners or news articles. Sometimes, though, she needs to tell her own story.
