First time mum/referee/ sleeve snot wiper to a wild toddler. Designated household bum changer. Blogging about this motherhood malarkey from a refreshingly honest and unfiltered perspective.

Young, not impotent

Young, Dumb, First-time Mum is what I labelled myself as, both on here and as my book title. Or rather, it's the narrow box I feel I've been unwittingly compressed into. It felt 'fitting' for the audience of scrutinizing judges, inspecting my parenting performance.
Having my now two-year-old son at just twenty years old (a very happy accident, I would like to add) was a definitive and immediate clause to establish me as an incapable mother. Like a rather harsh smack in the face, I, quite instantly, felt strained and pressured by the expectations put forth. I was set up to fail, to be just another young, inadequate mother with a wailing newborn that's distressing (colic) shrieking confirmed my incompetence.

My visibly young features evaluate me impotent. When declaring my age, I am dictated useless, and met with the familiar, inane snide glares, an exasperated tut. My own decision to become a single parent has assessed me a disappointment to my son, having, irrespectively, sacrificed his chance of a stable upbringing and his mental health will be the price. He will grow up having two homes, Christmas' with Dad and ones without, set days and parents who struggle to agree on, well, basically anything. He will feel the strain and the tension, the burden that should never have been his.
Having a baby so young concludes me a failure to contrive the parts that equip me a successful mothering milk machine of nappy origami expertise and rehearsed insta snaps. 

So young I am, my life only really about to take off, opportunities now to slip by, the possibility of a fulfilled life, discarded without thought. What a waste, my life now deemed "over."
The stereotype perceived as a 'good' mum is, well, what exactly? What brands me as favourable in my role as a mother? What devises me to receive the, 'Exceptional, I Didn't Kill My Child, And All Fingers and Toes Have Been Accounted For" mother award? Is there an age bracket? A box to tick? An expected image I must flaunt? And why has this unsought approval eluded me thus far? At what point in the roller-coaster of parenting do I reach the phase where I no longer feel this pressing urge to explain myself or feel as though my every parenting choice and mishap is being studied under the microscope by a sea of strangers?

To be rather blunt, I wish they would just piss off. I'm bored of snarky comments and disapproving looks, this cavalier attitude projected at younger parents.
I'm tired of gritting my teeth through passing comments and the grimaces as I feel myself being conspicuously dissected on my parenting capability based on my ability to calm a supermarket meltdown or the half arsed McDonalds I suggested as a quick and easy lunch.
What happened to not judging someone by a perceived premise? I'm exhausted of this dismal feeling like I have something I'm supposed to prove or that there are expectations I need to acquire before I can be considered a "fit" enough mum.

My age cannot and, will not ever, be able to fathom my ability as a mum. Nor will it ever be able to comprehend the limitless and consuming love and adoration that fuels me to be the best example to my little boy. My heart has never felt fuller than when I became a mother for the first time, a life without my son is unthinkable, completely unimaginable. My life is not my own any longer; it's all for him. He has filled a silence that, for so long, was deafening.  People should never presume that I don't do anything other than the very best for my whole world.
The surmising, the spewing assumptions, are nothing but exactly that - assumptions! 23 or 43, I'm a loving, capable and bloody damn good (if I don't say so myself) mother. 

No comments

Post a Comment

Blogger Template Created by pipdig