Criticism can take many forms. Sharp words can pierce deeply, leaving emotional wounds that hurt profoundly. I have encountered such comments. I have felt the dismissive glances and the judgmental remarks.
“You only have one child. You’re not a real mother.”
“Oh, you’re so fortunate to have just the one.”
“Just imagine having more than one; you have no idea how challenging it can be.”
Each word feels like a punch to my heart. I often hold back my responses. How could they call me lucky? I would have loved to have had one more child, but my body cannot accommodate that wish. I know what it means to change diapers and to endure sleepless nights with a colicky baby. The relentless wailing would begin every Tuesday night at 11 p.m. and last until dawn, a cycle that continued for two months. I remember those moments vividly, standing outside with tears streaming down my face, crying out to God for help. The trauma of those nights still haunts me, and Tuesdays still fill me with dread.
I have held my child through fevers reaching 103 degrees. As the temperature climbed, I would place him in a cool bath, tears in my eyes, as I watched him suffer. I felt helpless, unable to fix his pain. Late nights turned into sleepless stretches of worry, rushing him to the doctor, desperately wishing for a remedy that would bring relief. All I could offer was a mother’s love, but somehow that feels insufficient.
Friends I once trusted have remarked, “She seems like a good parent.” I acknowledge my past mistakes; I do not shy away from them. I have made poor choices that I regret deeply, and I carry the weight of that accountability. Once close colleagues have distanced themselves from my family, excluding my son from social gatherings. For three years, I was ensnared in addiction, and while I have now been sober for nearly a decade, the repercussions of my past still affect my child. In a small town, forgiveness is hard to come by.
Having only one child does not grant me the title of “real mom.” It doesn’t matter how many sleepless nights I endure or how diligently I work to provide for my child’s needs. As a mother of one, I constantly check his shoes, ensuring they fit as he grows. Boys grow so quickly, and each season brings new challenges and worries, even in the middle of summer.
My son is nearing the end of his crib days, and I am preparing a bigger room filled with play areas—a cozy spot for reading under a mushroom tent, an expanding bookshelf, and a corner for music and art supplies. The room will be adorned with trees, clouds, and dandelions, transitioning to a big boy’s space with a blue quilt on a larger bed.
At night, I tuck him in after reading two to four books and singing his favorite lullabies. As I gaze at my ever-changing child, I whisper, “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.” He responds with his sweet, “Night-night, Mama. Wuv you.”
To those who criticize with sharp words, perhaps I am not the type of mother you envision. I may have only one child, and I have stumbled in life, but when my son reaches for my hand and says, “Come here, Mama,” I never hesitate to follow. I am the only mother he will ever know, and I embrace that role wholeheartedly. I am his mother. I will always be his unique Mama.
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In summary, being a mother is not defined by the number of children one has or past mistakes made but by the love and commitment shown to the child. Embrace your journey, and know that each experience contributes to your unique role as a parent.
Keyphrase: genuine motherhood
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