Identity
As a young girl, my primary role model was my mother. My mother embodied every stereotype of a 60 's woman. She attended Kansas State Univ. Joined the Pi Phi Sorority, dated and married her high school sweetheart, and took up her role as a homemaker. She was the quintessential mom who cooked warm meals daily and perfectly cleaned the house. She dressed to the nines and always looked beautiful and well put together. She never worked outside the home, except for two years as a high school French teacher while supporting my dad through graduate school. Later in life, she dreamed of becoming a home decorator. In her 40s, she talked about starting an antique resale business. She and my dad made several trips to the East Coast, where she scouted out and purchased expensive antiques that would have become inventory for her business had she remained healthy and strong. I admired my mom, and even though I never really thought of myself as following her example—come to think about it—I actually did.
I went to college, met my husband, got married at age 20, and went to work as an English teacher to help support my husband while he finished school. I probably would have even settled into the same role of homemaker, except that I could never conceive and get pregnant. So, without a baby to care for, I just kept working and ended up with a 28-year teaching career in Santa Barbara. When we finally did adopt our children, they were 7,9 and 16, so I never had to choose between staying home with a baby or going to work.
My experience of infertility robbed me or maybe saved me from taking on the conventional role of stay-at-home mom. I traveled through my 20s and embraced the independence and identity I found as a working woman. But once I landed solidly in my 3rd decade, all my friends were having babies, and I was regularly invited to baby showers. Some of my friends were having their third or fourth child before I even had one. Mother's Day was a day I intrinsically dreaded and avoided. Not only was it a day a reminder of the mom I miss, but it also became a painful reminder of the mom I wanted to be.
After 17 years of marriage, 12 years of infertility, and 6 years of wading through the red tape of adoption laws, I did finally become an instant mother at age 37 to 3 children. And I rejoiced in finally getting to be identified as a mom. I felt like I had finally joined a special club where I could be and feel like other women. I still recall the crazy mix of emotions when we brought our kids home. Walking around town with three kids who still felt like strangers to me, I felt so awkward. It wasn't just that everyone stared at a white mom with three black children; it was more about me and my feeling that I didn't fit the role of mother. I was sure everyone could detect that I didn't know how to be a mom. I felt like a poser. I wondered if mothers with their first newborn go through the same awkward phase. It felt so strange to suddenly be identified as mom and yet not feel like I had learned how to play the role confidently.
And then there are the times when insensitive people call me out and try to steal my mom. One friend told me after her baby was born, "I'm so sorry you never get to feel like I do right now with a baby in my arms." And, of course, there is the the well meaning, but can I say dumb question, that occasionally gets tossed at me, "What happened to your kid's real mom."
But those questions only surprise me. I don't allow those questions to steal my identity as a mom. As my kids have grown, so has my identity as their mom. Abel loves animals and nature just like I do. Ciza has the same stubborn, rebellious spirit I recognize in myself, and Nizi's independent nature reflects mine. Yep, these are my kids for sure, and I have no doubt that I am their mom through and through.