No Woman, No Cry.

Let’s go ahead and get this part out.

I never planned to be a mother. Ever.

First, let me put your mind at ease by telling you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, one of those people who dislike children.

No, this has nothing to do with thinking they are tiny little terrorists running amuck with cookies and stains on standby, just waiting to throw a tantrum at the nearest adult. It also has nothing to do with a reasonable desire to keep all of my income to myself to plan vacations.

Actually, I think the tiny people of the world are the most deserving of the utmost respect, understanding, love, and care. I always have. Which is the exact reason I spent most of my teens and early twenties attempting to avoid them, and ultimately, having no desire to ever be a parent.

The hard truth of the matter is…

Since my mother never raised me, I automatically assumed that I would not be capable of motherhood. I strongly felt that since I’d never expressly experienced a mother’s love, then I would always and forever be unable to give that sort of love to a child. It just made sense to me. For that reason, I completely swore off motherhood. I secret felt, somewhere very deep that I didn’t even want to acknowledge in myself, that children deserved the kind of love and care that I’d always desired. The kind of love that only a mother, a good intending mother, would be able to and willing to provide. The sort of love I’d always wanted from my mother. I truly believed that by refusing to have any children of my own, I would be sparing a little child a life of living with someone who had no idea how to be their mom. So I chose to give up, before I really even gave myself the option, or even had the option, not to give up.

Somewhere along my journey, in spite of all my efforts of avoidance, I successfully managed to do the complete opposite of what I consciously intended to do.

My first job, in fact the only job that actually hired me as a teen, was all about kids. I spent every single summer working with children. I’m talking diaper changes, park visits, having to remember to bring the sunscreen, temper tantrums, keeping a constant eye on someone oblivious to their fragility, bandaids, snacks, and of course more snacks. The daycare I worked with was excellent and I was making more than a lot of my peers at their summer jobs. The part that troubled me the most, was how much the kids liked me! It amazed me how much love and light the little people are filled with. Seeing them excited to see me come into the classroom and even happy to show me something they made! I mean, the kids even made me art. I tell you, it even pained me to refuse to accept how much I loved all those adorable little unrecognizable masterpieces

At the time, regardless of how much I was enjoying it, none of this changed my mind. If anything, it made me even more adamant. I’d gotten some on the job training. I figured, “I can only imagine how the moms must feel, how do they do this every single day?!” The summertime fun with my daycare kids, not to mention all of the babysitting I did with my cousins at home, gave me all of the confirmation I needed that motherhood was not in the cards, for me at least.

Then, at twenty three, I experienced my first pregnancy, and subsequently my first miscarriage.

I was heartbroken.

Sure, even when I’d found out I was pregnant, I still had all those feelings I’d had before. Constantly questioning my capability as a mother, stressing about every little detail of my life, wanting everything to be perfect, and completely worried about how prepared I’d be for the baby. Then, in what still seems like an instant, he was gone.

I felt guilty, I blamed myself and hated myself for all of that worry and self doubt. I hated myself for always saying I never wanted children. I felt like it was all my fault for never believing I could be a mom in the first place.

I struggled with how sad I was for years, it was truly the worst time of my life. Eventually, I had to admit to myself, for the first time, that maybe the real reason I was so sad, outside of missing my baby, outside of feeling all of the love I felt like I had no one to give anymore, was because I really did want to be a mother, and maybe I always had.

That was the first step.

(It really is admitting after all, huh?)

Here, we fast forward a little, to get to the point of it all.

Now, I have a wonderfully beautiful and amazing three year old little girl. I live every single day in absolute awe at any and everything she does. I am grateful for all of the temper tantrums, the park visits, the hugs, and everything that has come along with being her mom. In turn, I am also grateful for all of those years spent working with kids and babysitting. I know now of course, that fraction of experience pales in comparison to actual everyday motherhood. Still, I am happy that I have some frame of reference to pull from when thinking of ideas to keep her busy hands and growing mind occupied. I even a collection of art again, this time it’s even more special.

Ultimately, I’m even grateful for all those years I spent reflecting on my lack of relationship with my own mother. I also appreciate all of the women of my family who stepped in to mother me and especially all of the mothers who trusted me and thanked me for working with their kids. I take all of my experiences, and by learning from them I am able to turn them all into more love and appreciation for my daughter. I am happy to be her mom at every single moment. I think this is who I was always supposed to be.