You know what’s a strange thing? To start referring to yourself as someone’s mom.
I’ve been a lot of things in my life. A daughter, a sister, a friend. I’ve been a student. A baker. A reporter. A wife.
I fell into all of those roles fairly easily. There has been a slight thrill with the newness of each one. After four years of college, to finally call myself a real, genuine reporter was exciting. Like I was finally legitimate. And to check out of the resort two days after I was married and mention that the room was under my husband’s name made me slightly giddy.
I’ve adapted to each new title, embracing it with ease and excitement.
But now I’m somebody’s mom. It doesn’t get any more real, any more profound than that.
And while I think I’ve embraced the physical role of it pretty well, I still haven’t quite gotten used to the title.
It’s just so big.
When I call the daycare to check on him and I stammer over the intro, “Hi, this is Meghan… Ryan’s mom…” I just know they’re thinking, “She must be some kind of fraud… this can’t be Ryan’s mom… He’s too cute, too smart, too amazing to have some amateur claiming him.“
When I go to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for him, and I’m waiting and waiting, and the pharmacist finally glances my way, drugs in hand, and says, “You’re Ryan’s mom, right?” And I stare at him blankly for half a second before realizing that he’s talking to me and I have a kid and I’m someone’s mom and that’s the whole reason why I’m sitting here, waiting.
Becoming a mom has been easy and wonderful and right. But calling myself one makes me feel pretentious. Like I’m claiming a higher status that I have no right to claim, that I did little to earn.