Me as a Mommy

When I was a kid, as much as I could recall, I played by myself. Luke, if he was feeling tolerant, would play with me here and there, but for the most part I was content with my Barbies. 

Having other girls over wasn't so much fun, for me. They wanted to do their storylines, and they weren't nice enough to my toys. There was definitely an accidental decapitation at some point, never by my hands. 

But other children say things to their parents like "play with me." Ben won't play by himself with toys unless he's engaged by an adult, but I find it rather burdensome. I usually need that time to take care of other matters or I'll be, frankly, bored out of my mind. I'd rather read him books with the funny voices. 

Ma never played with me. She didn't play with her grandchildren, unless they were old enough to to play cards or rummikub. I doubt she played with my siblings. So I don't see it as a necessary level of proper mommying that I MUST play with my child. 

Edan Lepucki states quite firmly in her Letter of Recommendation Don't Play With Your Kids.

I can’t say that my approach is right for everyone. I know that it resonates for me in part because of how I was raised. I have no memories of my parents playing with me. . .

This isn’t a complaint; it’s gratitude. They may not be a part of these memories, but they weren’t absent either. They were on the edges — there but not there. My parents allowed me private worlds of my own creation, and they respected them.

Ma was always THERE. I knew she was around, ready for me whenever I surfaced. She was happy; I was happy. I didn't need to interact with her every minute of the day to know that she was present. I just needed her THERE. 

It took some time, but I’ve realized I can’t be every kind of mother. I can only be one. I can only be theirs.

I liked this ending. I thought the world of singlehood was judgy, but the world of mommyhood is as well. This antisocial year has been quite pleasant for me, and now the comments are beginning to seep in all over again. 

Ben only wears shoes when he has to, a quirk I understand, and when I'm pushing him in the stroller I let his toes breathe. One day, an old woman hobbling by turns to him and coos, "Where's your shoes?" meaning "Does your mother not realize that you are not wearing shoes?" Accuse me to my face, lady. Leave the baby out of it. 

I am Ben's mother, and I will choose what sort of mother I will be. I can't be everyone, or else I wouldn't be me. Different situations will come up and I will have to choose as I go along. Things I claimed "I would never do"—well, chances are, I'll be doing them. 

The same way I couldn't be the sort of woman shadchanim and the community and the peanut gallery demanded, I married as the person I chose to be. I can only succeed going forward by continuing to be the same.