Updated: November 13, 2020
Originally Published: March 10, 2016
As I strolled through the baby aisle of a Target, my belly round with pregnancy and suffering from relentless nausea and a cracked rib, it became clear that I was a peculiar mom even before my child arrived. Surrounded by a bizarre array of bedding adorned with ducks, monkeys, and oversized-eyed miniature creatures, I was bewildered.
A fellow expectant mother, dressed in workout attire and exuding effortless beauty, casually rubbed her belly and asked me about my nursery theme.
“Theme? In life?” I said, perplexed.
She chuckled and clarified, presenting me with a pale green fabric swatch and an assortment of soothing paint samples.
Oh, right—the nursery. I imagined something akin to Peter Pan’s world, where children lounged all day while an older sibling cared for them. Meanwhile, she excitedly shared her zoo animal-themed plans, complete with a train border and custom lampshades crafted by her mother. I stood awestruck by her dedication and the Pinterest-perfect moms, wondering what secret energy source they had tapped into. Sanity? Sleep?
As she detailed her meticulous plans, I felt lost in the conversation. I awkwardly stumbled over my response: “I guess I’ll just get a crib and changing table. I was checking Craigslist, but I had a strange encounter where someone serenaded my stomach with ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland,’ so now I’m a bit wary. Diapers will definitely be involved…”
This marked the beginning of a series of nursery-themed inquiries, where I learned to either deflect with humor about my laziness or concoct an elaborate imaginary theme. I thought maybe if I claimed my theme was Ryan Gosling, people would forget the question entirely.
“Everyone needs a theme,” I was told repeatedly—colors, styles, curtains. The pressure mounted throughout my pregnancy. A baby shower? Absolutely not. A gender reveal party? What was that even for, a celebration of anatomy? The idea of being the center of a baby shower felt like a nightmare I’d wake from in a cold sweat.
Eventually, I devised a celebration I could control: a “Pre-Baby Barbecue.” We invited both men and women, ensuring a copious amount of alcohol that I couldn’t partake in. People drank, we played no games, and I survived without the dreaded baby shower rituals.
For some, like my mother who dreamed of fanfare as I carried her grandchild, my lack of traditional celebration was a disappointment. Her friends’ children participated in all the expected rituals, while I felt no urge to cut into a surprise cake. My child would enter the world without trumpets, in an unthemed room.
As I navigated motherhood, it became clear that I didn’t fit into any conventional groups of moms. While the other mothers were doing incredible things in their unique ways, I often found myself questioning where all the other oddballs were hiding. Throughout my life, I’ve always connected with eclectic friend groups, but I wondered if motherhood had somehow normalized everyone around me. I remained unbothered by themes, still didn’t care about cribs, and had yet to adopt any stereotypical mom style—unless you count the unwashed clothes, covered in snacks and snot.
Once, at the grocery store with my six-month-old strapped to me, another woman cooed, “Oh my, someone must be hungry. He’s so precious! Do you have him every day?”
No, I just borrow him for the grocery store chaos, I thought. It wasn’t the first time I had been mistaken for a nanny, or that someone seemed shocked to learn I was a mother. I often found myself suppressing the urge to speak up or feigning knowledge about various topics.
I breastfed in public, my child didn’t consume meat, I allowed his hair to grow, and he wasn’t enrolled in numerous classes. His favorite song was “Boom Boom Pow.” There were countless opinions and judgmental glances regarding my choices, but I accepted that my child would also embrace his own quirks—like hugging a bald man and calling him Buddha or crying at sad songs.
After my son’s first birthday, I hosted a small gathering amid a resurgence of themed parties. It included alcohol and a few conventional touches, like pictures of my son and a smash cake (which I really wanted for myself). As I cleaned up at the end, surrounded by matching plates and napkins, I realized I would never fit that mold of a “perfect” mom. The mismatch felt unsettling; coordinated napkins just weren’t me.
Ultimately, motherhood did not erase my uniqueness. As I delve deeper into this journey, I grow more comfortable with my identity as a nonconformist mom. To all the other quirky moms out there—don’t be ashamed of your tattoos, pink hair, or unconventional pets. Keep your 2001 music CDs and the jeans you’ve had since your youth. Build forts, create your own cake smashes, and hold onto your dance moves. Enjoy your nights in or out with friends, and don’t forget to watch the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles while enjoying pizza in bed.
The oddball moms are among us, possibly wondering if they, too, missed the gene for normalcy.
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In summary, embracing my quirks has become a source of strength in my motherhood journey. I’m learning to celebrate my individuality and connect with other like-minded moms along the way.
Keyphrase: motherhood and individuality
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