Whether they make you say “awww” or “ewww,” there’s no denying it, kids are totally “in” these days. Like a coveted, expensive accessory, each is exclusively designed and there’s a waitlist. It really is a miracle that one shows up every 7 seconds in our country. Which means that if you don’t already have one, chances are, someday you will.
Just think about it: Kids happen. In fact, millions of dollars have been invested on the unborn child—children whose moms are gutsier this time around, who work hard and play harder. Moms who you better not call a MILF unless you’re sexy enough to let her show and prove, who are fearless enough to wear weaponry—depicted on a sick graphic tee, that is—and moms who don’t always behave like… well, moms. You know, the kids of the future. Yours.
It matters not how it happens. There’s adoption, insemination, and still the old fashioned way. Question is, if it happens, what happens to you? Yes, you! Do you swap your good-booty jeans for butt-front mom jeans so that your ability to multitask suddenly becomes your best attribute? Are you taken unawares by a strange interest in all things baked, sterilized and domestic? Does the brain once only concerned with retaining your European shoe-size conversion suddenly and brilliantly translate everyone’s age from years to months at a glance?
Unless you were Mary Poppins in denim from the start, trying to fit the mommy mold just to qualify is as depressing as any other dogged quest for perfection. Although I can understand putting on the façade every now and then just to get through mind-numbing conversations about the pros and cons of pacifiers or preschool interviews. In actuality, it might just take an out of body experience to convince yourself that it’s really happening—that someone in the world hears the word mom and instantly thinks of you.
Two years and nine months ago, my very own journey to mommyhood began. And I found myself treading new territory in more ways than one. Getting used to not having a period was simple. However, turning into mommy was a daunting transformation to have to make. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Brooklyn girl. Strollers and poop don’t scare me—I walk city streets and take the subway, sometimes in two-inch heels. But more to the point, I like staying out late, sleeping ‘til noon, and having access to what I want, when I want it. And I really like graffiti, limited edition sneakers and all-over uzi prints on fitted tees, for goodness sakes! I knew I couldn’t cut it as a typical mom, mostly because I didn’t sing lullabies, cook square meals or have any friends with kids—ever. And expanding my wardrobe to include prim maternity clothes or talking about shedding the baby weight was a non-negotiable no-no.
But a cool thing happened when I became a mom; the image I had of what a mom is changed. And I realized that trying to squeeze myself into the cookie cutter made me into someone I simply can’t be. So I set out to define mommyhood for myself and kept my good booty jeans, no-kid-having friends, and machine gun riddled accessories. I kept my favorite hip-hop CDs in the stereo on heavy rotation and took my child everywhere I went. I understand that my biggest responsibility to myself is to be my truest and best self for me, and my son.
Now my two-year-old requests Pharrell Williams songs cranked up loud so we can both jam out. And I never spazz out over the washable marker scribbles found on everything in sight. Of course, I also accept that I’m probably grooming a future sneaker head, graffiti artist, DJ kid. {Watch out NYC}! But as long as baby boy get a square meal and is asleep before I am, I’m good.
