Don't Call Me That

“How do you feel about Mother’s Day?” My friend asked the question I couldn't stop thinking about all week. Sunday was only a few days away, but the weight hovered like a thick, gray cloud ready to pour down at any moment. You know when you can smell the rain right before it storms? The sharp, clean air filled with anticipation. 

Thankfully, my friend is a safe space. We can both say our truth without judgment and have consistently held each other in the awkward moments, so I told her the truth.

“I’m not super sure how I feel, but I’m giving myself space on Sunday to feel whatever that might be.” She nodded and understood. When she didn’t try to fix me, I decided to go a bit deeper and tell her something I don’t share often: “I don’t like it when people call me a mother.”  I let the words hang in the air for a minute to see if she’d fill the silence. I’ve said this before and often received, “But you ARE a mother!” She didn’t. She took a breath, which encouraged me to do the same, and asked me to say more. I love her.

I know that technically I am a mother. There is a death certificate with my name in the mother box. I felt Clementine kick in my belly when I played Lizzo's music. I traced her cupid's bow when she was born, and I have pictures of me holding her. But I never saw her alive. I never heard her cry or laugh. I never got to mother the way I wanted. What word do you use for that?

The word mother comes in many forms. Of course, the traditional one, the one I use for my wonderful mother. There’s a caregiver or teacher. Whenever my students accidentally called me mom, I always took it as a compliment. Mother Nature ,mother country or the classic mother fucker. And perhaps my favorite way to use the word Mother is in drag house culture, as a community and a place to belong, and as something reserved only for those who embody an iconic life. And then there are the bereaved mothers, the kind of motherhood I live. 

I carried on when my friend added, “How would I ever know what word to use for you? It’s for you to decide, not anyone else.” No one had ever responded in such an accepting way, especially because I’m not sure myself. 

People’s persistence with this ideology makes me feel like I need to fit into a closed box. I do think people believe that they are being kind, and for a while, I desperately wanted it to be true. I wanted to fit into that part of society. The Pinterest mom who hosted themed birthday parties, the mom who volunteered in the classroom, the one who was their child’s biggest cheerleader. Even in the traditional sense, there are many ways to mother a child, and the experience isn’t the same for everyone. But the word felt like a record scratching, nails on the chalkboard, or a car driving the wrong way on a one-way street. The word felt wrong.

I know I mother in other ways, but the big one slipped through my tight grip and continues to hold me hostage under the word. The word and I don’t belong together. And while that might feel harsh, it’s my reality. “But you are a mother. You carried her.” That sentiment makes my skin crawl. It simply doesn't fit, especially when I’m often left to tend to their “heavy emotions” through my personal grief. Yes, I did carry Clementine. And yes, I am aware of other stillborn mothers who identify with the word. That’s wonderful, they found their place. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I didn’t. Today, I give myself so much grace for simply acknowledging that I know I don’t fit there. The irony is, I spent eight years desperate to be called that, and now the idea is like speaking another language. No, I’m not like a regular mom; I’m a bereaved mom. The disclaimer changes everything.

I rarely say any of this out loud because it makes the conversation awkward, my specialty. Instead, I let the person go on about how I do fit into the category they put me in. I used to make it my mission to educate and inform, but let’s be honest, that’s exhausting. Is it even my job to educate? Sometimes I’ll grace them with my point of view, but more often than not, I let them say what they think needs to be said. I’ve done the girl math enough to know it’s not worth the cost anymore.

Clemetinedied seven years ago, and our relationship carries on. I talk to her every day, and she shows up in random places. But it’s not in the mother-daughter kind of way. There are moments I see more of myself because of her, and especially because of the grief. I have more strength because of her. These descriptions might sound like a mother's experience, but not in the same way, and finding the words to describe it might be a lifelong process. Honestly, mother sounds too simple for what I’m enduring. The word falls flat in an unexpected manner. Perhaps I’m more than the word mother, but what word is that? 

I’ve heard of the word vilomah, a Sanskrit word, meaning the grief of losing a child, and how the loss is out of natural order. But that word doesn't fit either. Maybe there isn’t actually a word for me. Seven years ago, that kind of thinking would have sent me into a tizzy, but today the not-knowing actually feels soft and relevant. There isn’t always an answer to the question. 

I spent Mother’s Day doing chores, working on my embroidery, and watching Mad Men with Brad. We ate my favorite pizza and snuggled with Chance. The day was soft and exactly what I wanted. Who knows, maybe someday I will identify as a mother. I know I will change alongside my grief, so there really isn’t a way of being definitive in this experience. The most honest and authentic thing I can do is trust myself in the process.