When it comes to motherhood, navigating the sharp words and judgment from others can feel like being pierced by daggers. I’ve encountered the comments, the dismissive glances, and the subtle scoffs.
“You only have one child. You’re not a real mother.”
“Wow, you’re so fortunate to only have one!”
If only they understood the struggles and the heartache of wanting more. I often keep quiet, but inside, I ache. I would have loved to have had another child, but my body has its limits. I’ve changed countless diapers and endured sleepless nights. The colic, a relentless cycle of pain-filled screams that began every Tuesday at 11 p.m. for two months, left me exhausted. Those cries echoed through the night, and at 3 a.m., I would find myself outside, crying out to God for help. Even now, Tuesdays bring back memories of that anguish. My little boy, my heart, and yet, I question if I am truly a mother.
I’ve cradled my child through sickness, watching as his temperature soared to 103 degrees. In those moments, when he seemed so fragile, I felt utterly helpless. I could only stay awake, counting his breaths and wishing for relief that never came quickly enough. All I had to give was my unwavering love. And still, I wonder, am I really a mother?
People I once considered friends have said, “She’s a decent parent.” I’ve made mistakes; I’m not ashamed to admit that. I have faced my past, and I carry the weight of those decisions. The little boy who is mine is often excluded from gatherings because of my history with addiction. For three years, I was lost, but I’ve fought my way back for almost a decade. Yet, no amount of time can erase the stigma of my past, and my child continues to bear the burden of my choices. In a small town, forgiveness is hard to come by. And still, I find myself questioning if I’m worthy of the title of mother.
Having only one child doesn’t automatically grant you the title of “real mom.” The sleepless nights and tireless efforts to ensure he has everything he needs often go unnoticed. As a mother of an only child, I’m constantly checking his shoes, preparing for the next size as his little feet grow so quickly. The seasons change, and I worry about summer clothes as winter approaches. It’s a constant cycle of care and concern, yet I still feel unworthy of the label of motherhood.
As my boy outgrows his crib, thoughts of creating a bigger room filled with play areas fill my mind. I dream of a cozy nook with books and music. A big boy room will soon take shape, yet I still grapple with my identity as a mother.
At night, I tuck my little one into bed after reading a few books and singing his favorite lullabies. I look at him, my beautiful child, and whisper, “Goodnight, my love.” He responds, “Night-night, Mama. Wuv you.”
To those who judge with their sharp eyes, I may not fit your definition of a mother. Yes, I have made mistakes, and yes, I only have one child. But when he reaches for my hand and says, “Come here, Mama,” I am reminded that I am the only woman he knows as his mother. I embrace that role wholeheartedly. I am his mother. I will always be his Misfit Mama.
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In summary, motherhood is a journey filled with challenges, love, and growth. No matter the number of children, the essence of being a mother lies in the depth of love and care you give to your child.