I have not always wanted to be a mother. When I was small, I thought all women had to become mothers. I thought that when little girls grew up, they aged into motherhood-- like it was a natural progression. When I was about seven years old, I learned that not all women were mothers. I was a little confused by this, but more relieved. Children seemed like a lot of work. I never played house like other girls, but I did play school. I didn't know at the time that this would begin my journey into the most important teaching job ever.
As I entered my teenage years and witnessed the wear and tear my own mother experienced, by virtue of mothering my sister and I, I determined that motherhood was a headache and certainly not worthy of the tears and frustration my mother seemed to regularly exhibit.
My thinking evolved again when I was out in the world on my own and landed a job at a school. I was twenty years old and observing the effects of others surviving absentee parents or abusive homes. These adolescents would arrive at school each day-- seeking more than an education. They were trying to find a family away from home, a family who understood them, a family who would accept them for who they were. For nearly thirteen years I would become part of that fantasy family: a confidant, a sister figure, a mother figure, a firm but gentle disciplinarian, a sounding board. I didn't know then that it would impact my future choices.
Over those years I grew close to many of the students. When they were not at school, I worried. When they were at school, I wondered what they had experienced the night before to make them so edgy or happy-- the spectrum of emotions was endless. Though I knew that I could not control what happened to them on a daily basis, I always felt a bit calmer when I could see them-- knowing they were safe for at least the school day. I learned to let go and have faith that they would be protected when they were away from my watchful eyes. Some days, my faith was tested, as I learned that there were great lessons to be discovered when grieving for a child-- a child lost to suicide, drug addiction, or murder. Who knew my heart could feel such pain. I could not imagine being a parent and experiencing such loss, and again-- swore off motherhood.
My job experience took me to San Diego, where I began working with a different population of adolescents. These children lived away from home and relied on the kindness of others to meet their needs. Though the staff members were not parents to these children, I watched them nurture and model and do everything possible to make these children feel supported and heard.
This new program had a school-- which I was in charge of. We taught academics and life skills and marveled as the students learned to read, write, or even just the basic skills required of listening and following directions. Because of the students' combination of intellectual disabilities and behavioral concerns, we masterfully learned how to create behavior plans in between being assaulted or just flat out ignored. Some interventions worked, and some failed-- but we always learned from doing. We quickly realized that there was no better way of experiencing something, other than having something to experience. We became experimental wizards. Throughout the course of any given day, we instructed them, fed them, helped troubleshoot, played games, laughed, worked on hygiene, created, and conquered obstacles worthy of warriors. We were gentle tigers, leading our cubs to be independent; we were artists, creating sculptures.
For thirty-nine years, I have vacillated between wanting to be a mother, and not. A plethora of experience brought frustration, ambivalence, heartache, joy, growth, fear, laughter, and tears-- all things human, all things parental. What I didn't realize-- along the way-- was that I had all the makings of a mother already, but was missing the most important ingredient... a child of my own.
