Who am I?
It’s a question I used to know the answer to. I could spout off more than a hundred characteristics, titles and job descriptions. And when I tacked up all of those words on my little bulletin board of life, things made sense. I could prioritize, organize, synthesize. I could define myself.
Runner. Writer. Lover. Passionate. Caring. Optimistic.
Now, it seems M.O.M. sums me up.
And I’m to blame.
I realized it one early morning when my husband and I were contemplating our daughter’s upcoming first birthday. I was lamenting her fleeting babyhood.
“I feel like I missed it,” I said, with a nostalgic sigh.
My husband, the more ‘realistic’ of our twosome, pointed out that my nostalgia was misplaced.
“After all,” he said. “You didn’t even miss a feeding. Not one feeding in a whole year.”
I happily breastfeed my daughter. Still do. And she – not so happily – refused every synthetic feeding device we put in front of her. Admittedly, we got lazy and didn’t try too hard — accepting her preferences as a newborn because nothing seemed worth another bout of crying.
But one year’s worth of feedings means this: It’s been one year since I’ve been away from my children for more than three hours at a time.
In one year, I have only had a handful of hours to myself.
In one year, I have spent every night within arm’s reach of my daughter.
In one year, I have, without questioning, always placed my children’s desires ahead of my own.
* * *
Before I had kids, I vowed two things: first, that I would not lose my sense of self; and second, that my life wouldn’t change that much.
The latter, I now realize, was about as realistic as the saying, “sleeps like a baby.” But, in my haste, I tossed out both promises– without stopping to think.
And I disappeared.
There’s nothing pretty about it — wandering through life not knowing who you are.
And, for parents, it’s a revolving door. The more parents lose themselves, the more they invest in their kids – as a comfort, a time-sucking distraction, something they can point to and say, “I do THIS well.”
But I have to wonder, if we are sacrificing everything for our children, are we really doing our job well? Is it healthy to teach children that they are, unequivocally, the center of our universe? To feel that we must set aside our own personalities, so that our children may develop theirs?
There is no black answer, only shades of grey.
And we must all find our place there, in the grey, giving as much as we can and holding on to as much as possible.
I suppose I’ve learned that I need hold on a bit tighter.
That my happiness is worth tears shed by a one-year-old – even hours of them.
That my friendships are worth my husband’s inconvenience.
That my self worth does not belong on the backs of my children.
