So we went back to the church that we tried out last week and I enjoyed it again. The pastor and his wife are about the same age as Jason and I. And I like the pastor, because I think he tells it like it is. I was a credit counselor for a non-profit organization for years and years and I had to be really nice even when people treated me badly and were abusive and crappy, so I’m pretty much over the whole sugarcoating thing. Call a spade a spade or whatever.
The pastor and his wife have two children, a boy and a girl, just like us. The difference is, their boy and girl are both under four years old.
And? I noticed? That everyone who has children the same age as our children? Much older than we are.
I’m used to that, in a lot of ways. I get that a lot of people don’t have babies when they are twenty-two and that’s cool. Frankly, I probably shouldn’t have had babies when I was twenty-two either if we want to base the “should have babies” factor on things like financial preparedness and emotional and mental stability. I’m so, so glad I had them because seriously I think that I had like a five minute window in 1997 which allowed me to get pregnant and I’m fairly certain that if it didn’t happen right at that exact moment I would have never, ever had any children at all, much less got to experience the joy that is The Boy and The Girl. I’m not big on regret as a general rule and I would never, ever, EVER regret having my children, even though I was really young and, admittedly, quite stupid.
I’m finding it hard, however, to fit in.
Because the thing I have learned is that, for whatever reason, people absolutely do not relate to me as a mother.
I really, honestly do not understand this.
If you know me and I mean, actually really know me, you know that there is nothing on this planet that is more important to me than the Boy and the Girl. Sometimes I’m amazed at what an awesome life I have and I’m really, really freaking grateful for everything I have that is good, but frankly, it could all go to Hell and I’d still be okay as long as I had them. They are the reason I work so hard to have what I have. They are the reason that I keep trying…that I will never stop trying.
Those kids? Make me who I am.
So why is it so hard for people to relate to me as a mother?
I mean, I understand why people don’t relate to me as a Supermodel or whatever. I get why it’s hard for people to recognize the fact that, um, yeah. I’m actually kind of really smart and despite my dubious use of the words too and to, I really do get a lot of things and know how to express them pretty well. I know I talk like I’m from the South and people automatically deduct IQ points when I speak and before they really get to know me.
I get all that.
But I am a mother. I have something to offer.
No, I don’t remember when you are supposed to get an ultrasound. I don’t know when babies get their first teeth in or take their first steps. I would be hard pressed to tell you what time my children were actually born. These things I don’t keep right in the forefront of my mind. I admit that.
But I know how to be a mother.
I know how to talk a crying child down from a meltdown. I know how it feels to have nothing else in this world but a little baby and that little baby hates you and wants you dead and has just freaking puked all over you. I know how it feels to be so proud of your little child that your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest. I know how it feels to watch your child cry and feel your own heart break and wish there was something you could do to fix it.
I know all that.
What I don’t know is where I fit in. Where I belong. Why people think I have nothing to offer. Why there has to be such a huge, gaping divide between moms. Between women, who should be supportive of one another, and instead end up putting each other in categories and groups and saying, “She can’t fit with me”. I do it to… I’m guilty as all of the rest of them.
I may not be what you think of when you think of a Supermom. I know this.
But I am a mom.
I’ve lived through it. I have stories.
And maybe, just maybe, I could help.
Maybe I really do have something to offer this world other than the copious use of the word douchebag.