| Musings |

Am I a Real Mother Yet?

By Elana Rothberg | July 4, 2018

**I thought I’d slap on a sheitel, push my carriage with new babe, and presto — perfect middos, calm and collected Mommy, with a million tricks up my sleeve to solve every problem**

Iam a fraud.

Three kids, and I still have no idea what I’m doing.

A Real Mother would — she would know how to deal with a child’s tantrums, how to put children to sleep calmly and smoothly, how to answer every last question. She would glide through the day with an air of equanimity and poise, doling out nutritious foods and sincere compliments.

On a good day, I give my kids cereal and milk (a carb and a protein!) and call it dinner, criticizing and nagging all the while, answering most of their questions with “I have no idea.” (And honestly, I don’t really care to find out the answer to where do mosquitoes build their homes.)

I pretend, I fluff, I act assured and confident, while inside, I just want to curl up in a ball and have someone else take care of me. Can someone else tuck my kids, and me, into bed? A few years or so of uninterrupted, deep sleep sounds about right.

I certainly don’t know what I’m doing. Not only do I not feel like a Real Mother, I barely feel like a grown-up. I’m still surprised when the cashier doesn’t ask for my ID when purchasing wine for our seudah. (Can’t she tell that the lines around my eyes are still fresh, and are just masking a girl playing pretend Mommy, for a pretend seudah, with a pretend family?)

I am nearing my thirties, yet too often, I still feel like a child.

I own my own home, my own car, have a real job, a real husband, real kids… so when does it stop feeling like I’m playing house?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this, ever since my son asked me to push up the ices that are encased in a plastic sleeve. He had first asked me to cut it, with the explanation that when he is an adult, he’ll be able to cut it himself. (True — we don’t allow sharp knives in the hands of three-year-olds).

After I oh-so-adroitly maneuvered the ices up, he mentioned off-handedly: “I’ll learn how to push it up myself when I’m a grown-up!” I laughed at his simplicity, at his sharp demarcations between child and grown-up, between unskilled and mature achievements.

It’s so clear in his mind, yet I still question my grownup-hood. Is this enough of an achievement for me to wear the badge of Real Mother?

And when indeed did I learn that skill of ices-pushing? When did I shed those Child layers? Some skin may have been sloughed off, but barely enough to be deemed a new creation, from Child to Mother. Just who declared me capable of standing on my own two feet as a responsible adult, and who says I’m mature enough to raise children?

I still have so much to learn, so many basic facts left to garner until I can be a Real Mother. When my children ask me to fix something, or they look at me wide-eyed, with hopes that I’ll somehow achieve the impossible, I know the truth: I am a Fake Mother. My oldest is barely five; for now, I have fooled my children, but with time, the truth will be revealed as the image of my omnipotence shatters into pieces.

And when they gingerly step around the shards, with only the glaring truth remaining that it was all a ruse, that I am a Fake Mother, how will they respond?

Do I still have time to learn everything before they discover my secret?

I thought I’d slap on a sheitel, push my carriage with new babe, and presto — perfect middos, calm and collected Mommy, with a million tricks up my sleeve to solve every problem, complex and sundry. And then my shock, that not only do my middos not improve with children, they get drastically worse, and my Mommy mush brain can’t actually recall a single, relevant fact to answer my children’s queries.

Recently, I feared the mirage was broken, that the curtain was drawn and, not dissimilar to the Wizard, my subterfuge was uncovered, with everyone paying a price. I was certain the belief my children held, that I had every answer, every solution, was destroyed the day we returned to our home to find a bird flying around the living room.

My first thought: What do I do??

My second thought: I am a fraud. A Real Mother would know exactly what to do right now. I looked like a madwoman, chasing it around while clutching a broom and screaming. It became a family game, as I appointed different children as guards to watch the elusive bird in flight.

I finally did get it out, and later that night, as I was putting the children to sleep, we were reflecting on our day, discussing the highs and lows. In my own mind, the bird debacle was an all-time low. It was so clear I had no idea what to do, that I couldn’t rid my home of a would-be predator. (It was a big bird.) It signified all my failings, that I couldn’t protect my children, that I am ignorant and incompetent… that I am Fake Mother.

But in their minds, it was highlight of the day, the hysterics, the giggles, the game. I had no idea what I was doing, and they loved every minute.

I don’t always have the right answers. More often than not, I respond to my bright, inquisitive children with “I don’t know.”

And while it’s true that their insatiable curiosity highlights my lack of knowledge, I often follow up with, “But that’s a great question, let’s ask someone!”

Maybe a Real Mother is meant to do just that: admit her ignorance, encourage mistakes, inspire even more questions.

Perhaps I’m giving my children the gift of imperfection, of teaching them that we don’t know everything, and that’s okay. My imperfect children have an imperfect mother, who is perfectly imperfect, real about herself, her flaws, her weaknesses.

Perhaps a Fake Mother has all the answers, but is truly flawed in her inability to say the three hardest, most important words for children to hear: “I don’t know.” Perhaps a Fake Mother is only one who knows how to raise children perfectly.

I am a Real Mother, teaching my children real life lessons. Always learning, always growing, always recognizing how little I know, and how far I still have to go until I can wear my title with pride.

And perhaps that’s the most important lesson a Real Mother can teach.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 599)

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