20th Anniversary: What Literary Mama Means to Me
It’s a cliche, but aren’t cliches recycled phrases for a reason? Prior to giving birth, I’d heard “Get ready. Motherhood changes you” from every possible source. And now, I find myself repeating the words to others and reflecting on how I discovered their depth. How motherhood meant more than a busier schedule, a changing body, a toy-cluttered house. More than midnight feedings, pediatric appointments, conversations about diaper brands with the mama friends I’d met along the way. During my pregnancy, I imagined the joys of seeing a first tooth or hearing my baby’s first word. But I couldn’t fathom all the pain that would also accompany the joy.
Motherhood expands your heart, floods it with an inconceivable love. But bigger hearts feel bigger hurts, too.
Only after the newborn, toddler, preschool, pre–teen, snarky teen and young adult years could I see the many faces I’d worn and the phases of motherhood that had changed me. There was the new-mom phase, in which I’d gained superhuman reflexes and ultra-sensitive hearing, tuned to the frequency of my infant’s every whimper.
The second round of motherhood came with another son, fewer fears and the ability to tune out the racket without guilt. Like many moms, I became an expert multi-tasker, accustomed to living with the chaos of sibling rivalry, backseat bickering and the relentless begging for more — candy, video games, TV time and so on.
But if those years were easier as I learned to manage in motherly fashion, the latter ones brought challenges I didn’t expect. With an ADHD diagnosed son, I tiptoed through each day, as if using caution could keep the school phone calls at bay, could keep the balance from shifting.
In my sons’ teen years, I became hypervigilant in new ways. I carried another brand of fear: Will my younger son survive his depression? Will these pills make everything worse, or will they give him a new sense of hope? Can my older son drive well enough in rush hour traffic, on the freeway, in inclement weather? Will his first girlfriend break his heart, and will my heart break, too?
Now, as a mid-40s grandmother, I see the years etched on my face. And oh how I worry about my autistic granddaughter. Worry, worry, worry— the background music that plays throughout the motherhood journey. Yes, motherhood has changed me. My affection for my sons has given me endurance and strength. But something else has spurred me on as well. I find it in other womens’ stories, in their raw confessions, their shared fragility, their honest insecurities. They helped me understand that the same thoughts run on hamster wheels in their heads, too. Am I doing it all wrong? Are other mothers more capable and equipped? Am I a monster for yelling at my kid? For wanting a secret home in a foreign country?
I am grateful for the mamas who told the truth everywhere–in phone calls, in shopping lines ,and on the pages of blogs and magazines. I feel a kinship with these perfect strangers because they were bold enough to speak. Here’s to the courageous Literary Mamas who chose the words I needed to hear, who stepped into my dark days, turned on a light and whispered: I know.
Rica Ramos-Keenum is a former journalist and the author of Petals of Rain: A Mother’s Memoir and Nobody’s Daughter: A Memoir of Healing the Mother Wound. She writes essays and hosts book giveaways with other writers on her website.