Middle Ground

I was in the elevator heading up to a gum-wrenching visit with my dentist, when a small, preppy man turned to me in disgust and said, “These mothers and their damned strollers!” He was referring to a pair of women who didn’t clear a path for him as he breathlessly rushed onto the elevator. I should have let him go on with what would have been an entertaining rant, but I reflexively stopped him short. “I’m a mother, so you probably don’t want to have this conversation with me. And by the way, it can be really hard to get around New York with a stroller,” I scolded, like the mother that I am. 

He awkwardly adjusted the sweater tied around his neck and assured me he loved babies. I doubted he loved anything as much as his own reflection, but I just smiled. I kept smiling when he got off the elevator on the wrong floor, and wandered through the maze of hallways outside my dentist’s office before he figured it out. “Serves you right,” I thought. But I did feel empathy for him. His Napoleon complex can make for some rough mornings, I’m sure. And it would be another five minutes before that rickety pre-war elevator came back to get him.

I watched him for a moment, tapping his boat shoe and pushing the up button impatiently. I considered asking him why he assumed we were simpatico on the matter of stroller-pushers. What about me gave him a kid-free vibe? I thought everyone could see my spectacular mother-aura lighting up the universe. Maybe he confided in me because I looked too young, too hip to be a mother. I was wearing a long frumpy skirt, wire glasses and orthopedic sandals. My overly floral Le Sportsac did hold goodies like coupons, loose raisins and a ticket to see the new Harry Potter movie. Yup, I was obviously the epitome of East Village cool.

Hey Monsieur Petit, hold the elevator! You’re right, dentists are way too bourgeois for me. Mon dieu, aren't you just dying for a cigarette? Let’s go stand in front of the building and blow smoke in the faces of all the babies who pass by. Ugh, how can anyone that fat be happy? Am I right, Mister P? What, I’m a bitch? Uh, you’re a bitch, bitch. Hahaha. We’re best friends!

Oh alright, preppy Napoleon and I never got to bond over things we mutually hate. I chose dental hygiene over friendship (again). But he did get me thinking about one of my favorite, unanswerable questions: How much am I defined by motherhood?

I don’t feel fundamentally different as a person, but how I spend my time, who I associate with, what I think about, everything about my life is tinged differently since my son came along. I am changed. In other words, motherhood is defining me, for better or worse. Although I can pass for a non-mom at times, am I always a mother first and everything else second? What will that mean for me as I go through life?

I wonder to what extent any mother is judged or hemmed in by that label. Take for example my Euro-chic dentist. Blonde and beautiful, she thinks nothing of wearing thigh-high boots to perform root canals. She’s six months pregnant now; how will those boots shape up once her son is born? As she looked at my x-rays, I could tell she was still buzzing from her latest trip to Buy Buy Baby. But once or twice as we were chatting about baby stuff, I saw a harried look creep across her perfectly made-up face. One that suggested that she sensed already how much her child would take from her. (Yes, I am projecting here—she has no freakin idea what she’s in for! Am I right, Mister P? Zut alor!)

I remember pushing my stroller down the street when I first had my son and giving everyone I passed a smiling, “Yes, mere mortal, I am a mother” look. Overnight, I had morphed into a wise matriarch. I imagined people lining up before me to kiss my pinky ring and ask for the secrets of life. Moving aside my flowing robes, I would graciously touch their foreheads, assuring them that I didn’t have all the answers, just most of them. (Classic pope complex.)

That was back when new motherhood made me feel invincible. Before the days when doubt and sleep deprivation made me unrecognizable behind my stroller, unseen and unheard. Now, in elevators, dentist chairs and everywhere else, I struggle between dreams of empire and no dreams at all, searching for the real me. And maybe also for a friend who speaks French.

Originally posted on Berdey.com