Not losing your identity when becoming a Mom : The boudoir studio featured writer Brianna Shrum

Your Name Is Not Mom

“Mom.”

“MOM.”

“Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom—”

“Hey, kiddo, why don’t you ask Mom about that?”

“MOMOMOMOM.”

MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!

It starts during pregnancy: that creeping feeling that while you’re (possibly!) totally

thrilled about bringing a new life into the world, somewhere along the line, something has

shifted. To the doctor, to the nurse, to your mother-in-law, to your partner, your face has

clearly changed. It must have, because overnight, it became clear to everyone that your primary

purpose was no longer to move through the world in the path you had carved. It was to make it

possible for your baby to do that instead.

Somewhere along the line, your doctor must have determined that you were no longer

her patient; the fetus inside you was.

That’s normal.

It’s typical!

I mean, yeah, sure. You’re a mom now!

It doesn’t really go away after pregnancy though, does it? People start asking questions,

no longer directed at you, but directed at “Mama.”

“How’s Mom? How’s baby? And how are we today?”

A clock hand ticks and no one is interested in using the word “you.”

And somehow, somewhere, you’ve forgotten how to use the word “I.”

I think that no one does this on purpose. It’s just so deeply threaded throughout our

society that it’s easier to get swept up in the idea than it is to fight against it. And yet…so many

of us have kids, and everyone accepts that Mom is not what we do; it is who we are.

On the one hand, there is a truth to that. Motherhood is part of my identity. It’s a big

part of who I am.

But it is a title.

It is not my name.

People decided that my body, that your body, was no longer our own.

They sent peppy e-mails about your new boobs, about “Enjoying them, Mama! Your

hubby will ;-D.” They sent advertisements for stretch mark creams, because stretch marks were

something to eliminate. Your doctor gave you advice about how much weight to gain during

your pregnancy, because every pound you gain during pregnancy is a pound you’ll have to lose

after.

Your body is not yours any longer, so it your job to make it a nourishing place for a baby.

A sexy place, within these very specific parameters, for your man. (Some of us don’t have or

want men to begin with, but that’s a different topic altogether.) They told you about sex after

giving birth—not how to enjoy it immediately, but that eventually it wouldn’t hurt. Eventually,

you’d get back on the saddle. Sex is something you owe your husband, right?

Your name is Mama, anyway.

Mama takes care of her children and her husband, and her self-sacrifice is beautiful.

They started calling you Mama, forgot your name, and eventually, you did too.

But Mom is not your name.

Mom is not your name.

It is part of who you are.

It is not my name. And it is not yours.

You are a human—you are just as human as you were before you started taking care of

one. You are a mom, but dammit. You are ALIVE.

Your body is your body.

Your time is sacred.

It is deserved.

It can be impossible to remember that before you were Mom, you were just you. You

were the person your mom brought into the world, a full human with a past and a present and

a future and a thousand quirks and passions and reasons for getting up in the morning and

passing out hard at night. I want you to remember that, and I want you to thrive.

Thriving doesn’t mean disappearing into the curtains after your kids are fixed lunch. It

means remembering that you get to eat, too. That you are not only not screwing up when you

ask your partner to hang out with the kids on their own, you’re doing good. I think for a ton of

people, it’s helpful to hear that you need to be at your best so your kid can have a parent at

their best.

But that’s…not what I want to say. I want to say that you get to honor yourself. Your

need for alone time. Your need for friends. For sitting on the couch and reading. Knitting.

Climbing mountains. Dying your hair. Heading to the gym. Playing baseball. Relaxing at the end

of the day with a big glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake. For whatever time for yourself

looks like for you.

For MASTURBATING, dammit. You get time. To masturbate. To fuck. You are allowed to

enjoy everything about that, because you are not a vessel for another life; you are a vessel for

your own. You’re sexy, and you’re alive and your body is yours, and no one else’s.

What do you love? What do you care abut? What do you miss? What, if you woke up in

a little cabin by yourself with nothing to take care of for the weekend, would be the thing that

got you out of that cozy bed? (Or would you just stay in there all day? Eyebrow waggle or

otherwise. ;-D)

Selfish is a word with really negative connotations in our culture, so part of me wants to

say, “Hey man, it’s not selfish to take care of yourself!” And that’s true. But so what if it is.

Don’t we owe it to ourselves to be a little selfish? If we don’t, who the hell will?

Let’s be just a little selfish.

Let’s remember that we get to take time and thought for ourselves. We didn’t lose our

personhood when we became parents; we got a new role, and the tiniest people who enrich us.

But that’s not your post-baby body; it’s just your body. That’s not time you’re taking away from

your kids; it’s just your time.

You deserve that time, and people who will scramble to make sure you get it.

My name is Bri.

What’s yours?