Motherhood, a Coming of Age

I’m an adult, a proper grown up with a garage full of the paraphernalia of said adulthood: a power-washer, a crate filled with sand blocks, paint rollers, and putty knives, and a second fridge, which was once filled with beer now contains the surplus of our Costco runs. I’m nearly 40 and married, raising a brood of girls, feeding and Furminating our dog, and struggling to remember to feed our (second) fish– I’m a grownup; and yet, I’m on the precipice of another coming of age. 

In an interesting plot twist, motherhood didn’t solve my identity-insecurity; I thought not knowing who I am was a thing of adolescence, puberty, young-adulthood, my mid to late twenties– you know, all the seasons of life before I had the purpose of motherhood. I was wrong. So, so wrong. As a mom, we are indoctrinated to don many hats but never given a mirror to really admire or appreciate the way they look; we only take notice when they topple off our heads and land in a heap around our feet. In fact, motherhood feels like a system not entirely set up for success.

And I chose it. 

Choosing motherhood is fun and fucked because despite all the unsolicited advice, books and blogs you read, nothing properly prepares you. I could’ve entered motherhood nearly two decades ago and I actively chose not to become a mom; actually, I made that choice, my choice, twice before I became a mom. So, I’m a fan of choice because choosing to be a parent is world-changing, identity-shifting, and it should be a choice. When I became a mom I wasn’t prepared for.. so much. I wasn’t prepared for the love I would feel, for the cliches to be true, for the exhaustion, for the wonder, for the magic, and for the mess. 

I also wasn’t prepared for the day I would choose not to create, grow, and birth more little humans. Making the choice to stop resetting the clock, to say goodbye–forever– to milestones, has me feeling confused about my identity… again. I know who I am as a mother to small children, after all, I boasted about being a mom to three kids five and under. I know who I am as a pregnant woman– glowing. But what’s next? I shudder at the thought of the kids all being in school because, “What the actual fuck am I going to do?” Yes, I have a degree– BA and MA. Shit, I even have a cosmetology license. I can’t be alone– we, as mothers, come of age, over and over again. And just like the fear and anxiety that riddles our body and mind as we start and push through puberty I’m greeted by those same feelings and I’m not a fan. 

The desire to have a fourth kid is often fueled by the fear of not having another kid– sounds crazy and totally sane. If I were to visit Poundtown with the intent of making a human, I know what the next nine months will be and I know what the next six years will be because that’s my experience so far. I wouldn’t say I’m totally devoted to my kids or devoid of space for myself but if Justice was holding the scales that bitch would be leaning more towards my children; and in a way that’s easier because I don’t have to think about me, or what’s next, or who I am.  

I’m without a doubt saddened that I will never breastfeed another kid, diaper another tiny butt, that my “baby” has opinions forcing me to recognize and accept that she is becoming her very own person. Of course, that’s the goal; I also daydream about an empty nest and living life with my husband, just my husband and a dog because it wouldn't be natural for us to not have a dependent of some kind, which is funny and sad. I just feel lost because Kid the First started school and already requires a bit less of me and I observe Kid the Second coming into her own, coming of age out of toddlerhood and into being a big kid. So, with all that growth happening, where do I fit in? What’s my role? And what the fuck do I do with all my “time”? 

I guess, I’m coming of age again. 

Except, I’m not hearing a lot of chatter about another coming of age at the various playdates and moms’ nights out I attend and I know I’m not alone in wondering what’s my next season? Whether you are a working mom, a stay at home mom, or a little bit of both, I'm certain that flexibility and acceptance are fundamental components of your motherhood journey; and yet, flexibility and acceptance are not afforded us as we attempt to navigate the various seasons of our career, goals, and dreams. It’s completely frustrating that we have to account for resume gaps, rationalize why we wanted to put a career on a pause, or justify wanting to start a new career and I think this happens because despite society forcing us to stack all those hats atop our head, the biggest and boldest hat they see is our mom-hat. 

Yes, the mom-hat is stunning, blinding even with its complex structure and nuanced details but it’s not the only hat we want to wear, and for fuck’s sake– it’s not the only hat we are capable of wearing. Underneath the mom-hat are the hats placed on us by others and the hats we want to wear: sexy hats, fun hats, smart hats, creative hats, and strong hats. And as I enter this new stage of motherhood, knowing more change is around the corner, I’m attempting to find the hats I chose, dust them off, and place them on top of the pile; while I’m up there, in an effort to hone in on who I am today, I’m also removing some of the ugly hats that were gifted to me and lighting them on fire because I no longer have the energy to carry them around. 

So, as I flounder through another coming of age, taking a moment to appreciate I’m sans acne and closer to menopause I allow my mom-hat to be a bit askew and covered partially by all those other hats, granting myself permission to be more than a mom. I’m willing to do the work, knock on the doors, and break the glass ceilings; I’m not willing to explain why I’m choosing to do more than be a mom; I’m not willing to let the scales tip further towards my children; and I’m certainly not willing to allow myself to be lost. I’ve had to figure life out many times before.

And coming of age– again– is a good thing.