Mother's Day: What does it take to be a 'real' mom?

To be somebody’s mother means to perform every day a variety of small tasks – some maddening, some terrifying, and some just plain weird –in the service of a child. While my daughter’s final birth certificate does list my name, I attribute my role as Mom to events that have nothing to do with pregnancy or an official seal.

I’m thinking of the time Maia squirmed out of my husband’s arms and hit her head on the hardwood floor. Sick with fear, we rushed her to the emergency room, where she proceeded to high-five all the doctors and nurses until they told us to go home and chill out.

I’m thinking of the numerous potty-training debacles during camping and hiking trips last year – most notably those involving a luckless tide pool and, separately, a sand dune.

I’m thinking of the time Maia choked on a piece of tofu and turned a faint shade of blue until her daddy hung her upside down and the food flew out. Afterward, I clutched her to my chest, sobbing. Then I knew that this little girl was truly my daughter.

But did she see me as her mother, or did she – like the woman at the park – find our physical differences confusing?

We left the mother pushing her three little girls on the merry-go-round and walked home. I made Maia her favorite macaroni and cheese, then read Eastman’s book to her again in the green chair.

“Why is that big bird the little bird’s mother?” I asked my daughter after the final page.

Maia scrunched her eyes in thought. “She bring him a worm,” she concluded.

“And who is your mother?” I pressed on.

She snorted at my ignorance. “Who’s my mother?” she scoffed and pointed an indignant finger at my chest. “You are.”

I kissed her good night, secure in our bond. But I wondered about public perception. If other strangers questioned our relationship as openly as the woman at the park, how might that affect Maia? I had to concede that outside forces were mostly beyond my control – all I could do was commit over and over to my child.

The next week, I took her to the doctor’s office for a checkup and an elderly couple in the waiting room admired her.

“You’re a cutie,” the man said. “Where do you get that curly hair?”

He nudged his wife and smiled. “Oh, I see,” he said. “From your mommy.”

I glowed with happiness. Not because the man assumed or didn’t assume a genetic connection between Maia and me. No, I beamed because the man had referred to me as Mommy.

Melissa Hart is the author of “Gringa: A Contradictory Girlhood.” She teaches journalism at the University of Oregon.

Related:

• Was it easier being a mother in 1908?
• To be a mother
• A Mother's Day thank-you

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