Mother
Today is Mother’s Day, so it feels fitting to write something about being a mother.
I was raised by a mother who wasn’t very loving. She worked hard—she had to—with six children to care for. I don’t think she ever truly wanted to be a mother, but was pushed into the role because, at that time, what other options were there for a woman without education? She was also a product of a family shaped by turmoil after coming to this country. So she began her life as a mother without really choosing it.
Still, I can recall small pockets of love. Dancing around the house to Johnny Cash or Elvis. A well-prepared meal. A stuffed bunny I once saw in a store—near the place where she always bought her hobo pocketbooks—somehow appearing in my Easter basket. There weren’t many cuddles, or “I love yous,” or long talks when you were hurting—but there were moments.
When I was an undergraduate, I worked at a preschool. I chose that job intentionally because I wanted to learn—from people who really understood children—how to care for them. It ended up being unexpectedly therapeutic. Somewhere between circle time and snack, I began to understand my own childhood and quietly started to heal.
When I got pregnant with my son, I was shocked—but also felt the greatest joy I had ever known. I wanted to be his mother more than anything. I loved being pregnant (which I know already makes me slightly suspicious to some people), and I was lucky to have a smooth, uncomplicated experience. I was surrounded by a wonderful midwife, my husband, and a dear friend who helped welcome my beautiful boy into the world.
Motherhood hasn’t been perfect or easy—but I have truly loved it. The playing, the countless art and science projects, visiting what feels like every playground in NYC, reading books, giving hugs whether he asked for them or not. I cried at everything. My favorite memories are the walks we’ve taken at every stage of his life, filled with the most heartfelt conversations—and the nights he sits in our room chatting endlessly while we’re trying (unsuccessfully) to fall asleep. He is, without question, my favorite human.
I’m so grateful I had the opportunity to be a mother. Grateful that I could experience this kind of love, and give it freely. And grateful, too, to my own mother—for giving me life, and in her own way, setting me on the path to become the kind of mother I wanted to be.
As the saying goes, “There is no way to be a perfect mother, but a million ways to be a good one.” I’ve held onto that—especially on the days when stepping on Legos felt like my main form of cardio.