In the realm of parenting, there are moments that, while seemingly trivial to the logical mind, can ignite a fire within your emotional self. I find that my inner warrior often raises her voice, demanding recognition.
I am aware of the love I share with my partner and our children. I understand that my contributions to our family dynamic are significant and appreciated. My role is vital—I help with lunches, bedtime routines, nail clipping, teeth brushing (excluding those ice cream moments), laundry duties, school drop-offs, homework assistance, imparting life lessons, crafting memories, and nurturing unique connections with each of our kids. I recognize that these actions define my motherhood as much as the love I provide.
Our children may refer to having three moms, inquire about calling me “Mom,” or ask for “the other Mommy” when I’m not the one responding. They even tell their friends, “I can’t do that; my mom says no,” after they’ve been asked to do something they know is off-limits. However, when my name is “Mia,” it’s not immediately understood by others.
While I strive to maintain a balanced perspective, knowing that my internal validation outweighs external perceptions, my inner warrior can’t help but react.
She raises her fists when someone hears, “Mia, can we play a little longer?” and assumes I’m merely the babysitter or nanny—an assumption that stings, especially considering I once had to identify as the nanny. She blushes when I sign permission slips or call the school and my name doesn’t align with those of my partner or kids, resulting in a verification process.
My inner warrior rolls her eyes when people question my desire to attend parent-teacher conferences or medical appointments. And she becomes indignant when a gift for one of our children proclaims “Mommy Loves You.” Guess what? Mia loves them too, but no one seems to be making shirts that say that.
Logically, it’s ridiculous to argue with my partner over a “Mommy’s Little Angel” shirt intended for our child’s school day. It’s not about denying my partner, the biological mother, the chance to choose whimsical clothing; it’s about the fact that I’ll never have that opportunity.
Of course, my rational mind recognizes that I have countless other experiences as “Mia” that I am deeply grateful for. So, I assure you, these moments of frustration are rare and fleeting, but I’d be dishonest if I said they don’t exist.
To my children, if one day you want to emblazon your graduation cap with “Mia Loves You,” I won’t object. My inner warrior will cheer louder than you can imagine, embarrassing you just as I always have—just as you would expect from your mom.
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
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In summary, despite the complexities of being acknowledged as a non-traditional parent, my love and involvement in my children’s lives are what truly matter. The name I go by is less significant than the bonds we create and the memories we share.
Keyphrase: The Other Parent
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