Are any of us really just one thing?
I hate defining parenthood as if it was a simple choice to be “this type of mom”.
I am not a kind of mom – I am a mom. I am me. I breastfed all my children and sleep with them but I believe sugar and TV are the rights of the young. I am not a stay at home mom, or a work from home mom…I am a work from wherever there is a plug, or a signal mom. A flying by the seat of my pants mom. A business owner who refuses to discuss how my partner helps me until his office starts calling me.
I love my children, but I also love their nanny.
I am faced with the issue at birthday parties. We send our children to a Waldorf school, a wonderful choice for our family and a privilege for the children. But if you know Waldorf or read about it a bit you will know that a blackberry addict, business running, New York and Las Vegas loving, Mac book carrying Mama might not quite fit in. I cannot sew a stitch and I would sooner die than wear a jumper.
So birthdays roll around and we invite every child available to our house for a super party. I love to bake and do not live by any kind of half assed standard – so the cake is multi layered, fondant covered, greatness. But I always struggle – do I hide the Transformers? Do I lock the Playstation in the office? In the end I don’t, I realize that I don’t really care what any of the other moms think and go right on being me
I worry about new moms. That they don’t know that there isn’t a type of mom or a rulebook. We all just love our kids and do our best and mess them up in our own special way. I do not want to loose myself to the motherhood experience. I want to look at my kids and be able to say that they know me - with all of my flaws and greatness. I hope that will give them permission to know and love themselves.
So what kind of mom are you? Attachment parenting, Ferber loving? Most likely, you are somewhere in between - on a unique journey, with your one of a kind child through the joys and sorrows of real life. Labeling, and judging divides us at a time when we should be together in a motherhood tent wiping puke off our track suits and business suits and buying “homemade brownies” for the class picnic. Together.