I’m Not Ready to Be “Mommy”

Since the day my boys were born, I have been “Mama.”

I never felt like a “Mommy,” which is actually a little ironic, since that’s what I called my own mother when I was young. My mom epitomizes everything I believe a mother should be. It seems natural that I’d be eager to take on her title.

But for some reason, the moment the doctor pulled my boys out of my open abdomen—10 weeks before their due date—it was the word “Mama” that popped into my head. As I kissed the delicate red skin of their cheeks, mere seconds before they were whisked away to the NICU, I knew that’s who I was meant to be.

In their absence, I whispered it to myself like a quiet prayer. The word on my lips felt much like their skin had: soft, comforting, natural, perfect.

I fell in love with the word “Mama” the same way I fell in love with my boys: immediately and irreversibly. I loved its simplicity and its symmetry. That one tiny syllable—whispered twice—was a perfect analogy for the two new loves that had entered my life.

The word “Mommy” just didn’t have the same effect. When I said it, I felt tension in my face as my lips stretched horizontally, their corners drooping slightly downward on the last syllable. It felt forced. It felt unnatural.

And it sounded unnatural, at least to me.

“Mama” sounded like a lullaby, and “Mommy,” more of a kitschy theme song to an animated kids’ show. Maybe it was that long “e” at the end of it. It sounded hard to me, and it didn’t match the new softness my boys had created in my heart.

And so, the day they were born, I was, too. As their “Mama.”

As their Mama, I watched them grow from scrawny preemies into chubby cherubs. When they smiled for the first time, it was their Mama who smiled back.

As their Mama, I laughed when they learned to crawl by chasing my untied shoelace around the kitchen floor. When they made it all the way to the refrigerator, it was their Mama who cheered for them.

As their Mama, I gazed upon their tiny hands when they reached out for one another, their little arms closing the gap between their Rock ’N Plays. When they interlocked their delicate baby fingers, it was their Mama’s heart that melted.

As their Mama, I marveled at the innovative way they walked around on their knees—their torsos upright—scooting around as though in animated prayer. When they transitioned to their feet and took their first steps, it was their Mama who clapped with pride.

And when I finally heard them call me “Mama,” each in his own time, I couldn’t imagine ever being anyone else.

*

Now here we are: My boys are on the cusp of Threenagehood. Instead of walking, they’re learning to use the potty. Instead of first words, we’re celebrating letter recognition. Instead of soft coos and simple words, I’m listening to full sentences and (frequent) demands.

Instead of rocking them to sleep in my arms at night, I’m tucking them into big boy beds. Instead of falling asleep to the sound of my voice, they’re drifting off in fits of giggles, while I sit in another room, listening to their private chatter (literally) behind closed doors.

And instead of “Mama,” I am “Mommy.”

The first time I heard one of them say it was over breakfast. They were forking sliced bananas at their Cars foldout table, and I was walking out of the kitchen to use the restroom. As I left, the voice of my youngest trilled after me:

“Mommmiiieeeeee.”

At first I laughed. I’d never heard either of them use that word before, and its newness sounded off-kilter and unnatural, like a native English speaker saying “Hola” for the first time. Of course, toddlers believe anything that evokes laughter bears repeating, so it wasn’t long before my other son was saying it:

“Mommiieeee, more pancakes. Mommiiieee, more ’nanas. Marshmallow cereal, Mommiiiee!”

I thought the novelty would wear off once I stopped laughing, but it kept happening.

When one of them accidentally locked himself in a bathroom stall at the splash park: “MOMMY, help!”

At bedtime, as we were reading stories: “Sit on MOMMY’s lap.”

When they caught me “resting my eyes” for a moment: “MOMMY go night-night.”

When they walked out the front door for a boys-only playground trip with Daddy: “Bye, MOMMY!” (That one stung just a little more than the others.)

I have nothing against the word “Mommy;” I’ve just never identified with it. I don’t feel a connection to it. But I suppose one of the poignant inevitabilities of motherhood is that as your children grow older, your identity—and the role you play in their lives—changes right along with them.

I’m not ALWAYS “Mommy.” In fact (to my relief), the boys have—on their own—reverted back to using “Mama” as their primary way of addressing me. But sometimes (usually when they’re being silly, or acting particularly independent), I become, at least for the moment, “Mommy.” 

And I don't like it.

I know it sounds silly that I'm getting so hung up on such a minute linguistic change. It is—after all—just a word. One word. Not even one word. One syllable. One vowel sound.

An “ah” to an “e,” and—just like that—it feels like I'm losing a piece of myself, the piece that initially connected with them in that NICU, almost three years ago. 

Just like that, I can feel their babyhood slipping away, taking my Mamahood with it.

Far more than the flip of a calendar page, the shift to “Mommy” is making me realize how quickly they’re growing up, and how much we’re leaving behind.

I know we still have a lot of "firsts" to look forward to: The first day of kindergarten, first bike rides, first Little League games, first science fair projects, first dates and first kisses (oof...just typing that makes me cringe).

I plan to be there for all of it (minus, perhaps, those first kisses), whether it's as their "Mommy," or (eventually, I'm sure) their "Mom."

But as they—and the role I play in their lives—continue to grow and change, I hope they'll always remember that I was their "Mama" first.

To the Mom in the NICU: You Are Enough

To the brand new mother in the NICU, the one who refuses to leave her premature baby’s side:

I have sat where you sit. I have feared the things you fear. I have felt the pain you feel.

I have held my own three-pound miracle, and marveled at the soft blond hair covering his body, as if his guardian angel’s wings had shed downy golden feathers on him, keeping him warm. Keeping him safe.

And I have asked myself, Why couldn’t I keep him safe?

Why wasn’t my body the loving, nurturing environment he needed?

Why wasn’t I enough?

I know the guilt. I know that you feel like you’ve failed him in this harsh world, a world he’s not even supposed to have entered yet.

You should have done more. Should have given more. Should have been more.

But let me tell you something: There is nothing more than love.

Nothing more you can do for him than love. Nothing more you can give to him than love. Nothing more you can be for him than love.

He knows your love, and that is more than enough.

He feels it.

He feels it in the way you cradle his fragile body close to your chest, and in the warmth of your skin enveloping him like the quintessential security blanket. He feels it in your heart, pressed against his, beating out a private “I love you” in an intimate Morse code that only the two of you understand.

He feels it in the tip of your finger, the only part of your hand that fits inside his precious, wrinkled fist. He feels more love in that one finger than some children feel in a lifetime.

He feels it in the soft trembling of your body as it quivers with silent shakes of wonder, hope, and gratitude.

He smells it.

He smells it in the faint staleness of unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, and unlaundered clothing, byproducts of your refusal to part with him any longer than absolutely necessary.

He smells it in the soured breastmilk crusted on the front of your shirt, and in the pungent odor of cafeteria food that's seeped into your skin.

He smells it in the Purell you rub into your hands every time you hope to touch him, and in the iodine residue that has permanently settled into the cracks of your knuckles, a souvenir from the scrub room you frequent on a daily basis.

He hears it.

He hears it in the hushed voice that reads to him while he lies in his incubator, and in the songs that are whispered softly into his ear as you cradle him in your arms. He hears Christmas carols, because you don’t know any lullabies yet.

He hears it in the gentle creak of the rocking chair, and in the muffled sound your lips make as they trace the path between his cheek and the crown of his head, marveling in the softness they find there.

He hears it over the whirring of the CPAP machine, when you whisper to him so that no one else can hear, reminding him—begging him—to keep breathing.

He hears it in the rhythmic snores and deep breaths of your slumber—when exhaustion finally gets the best of you—and in the waking silences you spend in meditation and prayer.

He tastes it.

He tastes it on your skin, as you trace the cupid’s bow of his upper lip with your little finger, and in the waxy layer of Vaseline you apply so tenderly to the cracked, flaky skin you find there.

He tastes it in the plastic coating of the tiny tube that transports your breastmilk to his underdeveloped belly, and in the traces of day-old coffee when you gingerly touch your lips to his.

He tastes it in the salty tears that spill from your eyes and land on the delicate red skin of his cheeks, anointing him with a mother’s everlasting devotion.

He sees it.

He sees it in the lines carving themselves into your face, spanning like map routes, recounting the journey of how you came to be here—together—in this moment, but showing no indication of where you’re going. They point towards uncharted territory that you’ll discover together.

He sees it in the disappointed way you bite your lip when the nurse tells you it’s “not a good day” to remove him from his incubator, and in the way your hands instinctively press against your chest, reflecting your desire to hold him there.

He sees it in the dark circles that hang from your eyes like weights, willing them to close, and in the determination in the pupils that peek out, forcing them to remain open. He sees it in your stubbornness, your fear to miss even a single moment of the beautiful life you created.

He sees it in the way you see him, as if there is nothing else you can—or will ever need to—see.

You brought him into this world, and he became yours. You love him. He knows.

And you are enough.

*

And to my own NICU warriors:

From our first week in the NICU together...

 

...to our last... 

..and every day since...

 

...you've had my heart.

I hope I've earned yours.