Updated: Aug. 21, 2015
Originally Published: Sep. 30, 2012
A pivotal moment in my life occurred the day my child inadvertently stepped on my chest, which forced me to confront the changes my body had undergone—or rather, what it had ceased to be.
Before you jump to conclusions, let me clarify: I’m not into anything particularly risqué, unless we count my obsession with sleep. The unintentional foot soldier was none other than my four-year-old son, who categorizes his actions as either “on purpose” or “by accident.” The boob incident was most definitely an accident, but I remember a jumbled stream of thoughts racing through my exhausted mind: “Ouch, my chest; ouch, my self-esteem; shouldn’t this phase be over by now? Well, that just happened.”
Yes, it hurt, but it also became a metaphor for something I had sensed for a while but hadn’t articulated until that moment. My reality, no matter how much I tried to protest, correct, or discipline, was now one where such incidents were possible. My body was no longer my own, and I certainly wasn’t in charge anymore. You might think, “Isn’t this what pregnancy prepares you for? Sharing your body with another human for nine months?” Theoretically, I thought I was ready, envisioning a communal experience where I’d get a larger share of my own body, while everyone lived happily ever after. Instead, I found myself in a dictatorship, and I wasn’t the one in control. So yes, I was prepared. Totally.
Before becoming a parent, I had a vague notion of the ways I would relinquish control over my body. It was akin to imagining life aboard a space shuttle—lots of buttons, zero gravity, and food that floats. I knew my privacy would dwindle; I might have even predicted that family bonding would turn my bathroom breaks into a public affair. But did I ever think about the possibility of someone stepping on my chest? Not a chance. I never imagined that motherhood would mean not just a lack of privacy but also a loss of autonomy. That seemingly trivial incident became a symbol of the unexpected—like “these boobs are made for walking.”
Motherhood transformed my existence, making me function in ways I had never experienced before. I became an object, a mere noun, embodying roles I never knew I’d take on. I’ve been a source of nourishment, a comfort object, and a lively entertainment source. By enduring my son’s occasional hair-pulling or dodging flying remote controls, I’ve morphed into an interactive learning tool—think of me as Baby Piaget, helping my son discover his little hands’ capabilities.
At first glance, some of these roles might not seem like a loss of autonomy. My decision to breastfeed was entirely mine, but by becoming someone’s food, I surrendered my freedom of movement. Yes, I knew I could always pump. So I did—eventually. But the initial pain I experienced while nursing, compounded by my in-laws’ visit for “support,” stripped me of the right to choose who could see my private parts. I still don’t control when I can shower, and let’s not even get started on sleep!
And then reality threw me another curveball: a multi-person discussion about my pumping schedule, which further demonstrated how far I had drifted from the notion of bodily autonomy. My body had shifted from being merely a vessel for my own desires to a playground for little boys and a forum for adult discussions. Along with this came the loss of internal privacy. I long to reclaim ownership of my mind, even if it’s just for an hour! Neil Gaiman should consider adding the God of Feed to his book, because that deity is everywhere. Twitter, Facebook, emails—they all flood my brain. But the most persistent feed is the one that matters most: my four-year-old’s relentless stream of thoughts, questions, and observations. His “mama?” is a constant pull on my attention. While being the lens through which he processes the world is one of the most rewarding aspects of parenting, it’s also incredibly demanding. Sometimes I just wish for a few minutes of solitude with my own thoughts!
Losing bodily autonomy isn’t the end of the world, but it is a significant shift. I am nourishment, entertainment, comfort, and so much more. I am everything to my boys, but eventually, that won’t be the case. Gradually, my autonomy over my body and mind will return. And when I find myself alone with my thoughts again, I’ll have brand new complaints to share.
For those navigating the journey of parenthood, resources like the March of Dimes provide excellent insights on pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re looking for family planning options, consider checking out the at-home intracervical insemination syringe kit for a boost in fertility, as well as the baby maker kit for your home insemination needs.
Summary:
This reflection on motherhood explores the unexpected loss of bodily autonomy and privacy that comes with parenting. A humorous yet poignant narrative reveals the challenges of being simultaneously a source of nourishment, entertainment, and comfort for children. The author emphasizes the need for moments of solitude while acknowledging the rewarding nature of motherhood.
Keyphrase: Loss of bodily autonomy in motherhood
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