The Weird Mommy

I fear I’m going to be one of THOSE moms. One of the ones that is not cool, doesn’t fit in, and is generally weird.

Seriously. I’m not even a mom yet, and already I am swimming against the current of Mommy-dom.

I feel I don’t fit in in so many ways. Not that it’s a problem — I’m okay with it — but I am afraid my kid is going to look at me in the eyes-rolling, oh-I-am-so-EMBARRASSED kind of a way. You know the look.

For one thing, I am over 40. I am going to be older than a lot of the mommies my child deals with on a regular basis. Because of the age difference, I likely won’t be part of the Mommies Who Lunch or whatever group of moms is getting together at any given time. I’ll have some gray hair. I’ll creak when I walk. And I fear that my age will make my child resent me, just a bit.

Also, I don’t act my age. So not only will I be an Old Mom, but I’ll be an Old Mom Who Can’t Dress Herself. I’ll still wear sweats and baseball hats and put my hair in ponytails. I’ll still be painting my nails blue or black or garnet or whatever colour grabs me at any given moment. Or I’ll be the Old Mom Who Does Not Act Her Age, And Not In A Dignified Way Either, as I still enjoy going to games (and, YES, hollering and cheering) and playing volleyball and have been known to run around and dig in the dirt and sit on the floor. So that’s not good either.

And then there’s the issue of not fitting in with the other Mommies. As an adoptive parent, there are a lot of boards and webpages and sites you can go to and share information with other adoptive parents, and I go to several. The parents there get along famously and are forming really close relationships. They all seem to be bonding and meeting up and sharing common interests. I am pretty much not. I just don’t seem to fit in terribly well. I don’t scrapbook. I don’t go in for tickers and blinkies in my signature. I am not fervently counting the days/weeks/months (except for as an informational thing on my blog). I don’t go to the get-togethers. I’m not planning on breastfeeding or homeschooling. So I’ve formed only a very few connections within these communities of people.

And within the international adoption community, there are a whole lot of fervently Christian people. There are Christian charities doing good works, and faith-based agencies uniting parents and children, and people who praise God for the progress they are making in their adoptions and the lessons they are learning. Once again, though, that’s not me. I don’t fit in with this community. I cuss a fair bit (as anyone who reads this blog knows). I’m often uncomfortable with overt religiousness and professions of faith. And so, I lack that kind of a bond with these good folks on these boards and blogs, as well.

So between my innate weirdness, and my lack of connections to these various communities of people, I fear sometimes that my child will be missing out on a lot. I wonder if I should be trying harder, or trying to change, or just doing something differently.

But then I look around at what I have to offer. I may not dress and act like the other moms, but maybe that will be fun. I have a love of sports and music and laughter and baking and gardening — and maybe these are things my child and I can share. I have a diverse and extended circle of friends and family and acquaintances that will be welcoming our child and will provide love and guidance and a social framework in which to grow and flourish. I will be fervent in my love for my child, and grateful for every day we have together.

And maybe, one day I’ll get tired of the ponytails and the weird colours of nail polish and hollering at referees. Or maybe not.

Either way, I may end up being the weird mommy. But maybe instead of the eye-rolling and embarassment, perhaps my child will instead think of me as fun and unique and understanding. I hope that he will think of me as someone who brought him into the centre of a loving extended family circle, that supports him and guides him with love and encouragement. I hope that through the diverse family community we form around him, he sees his world as ripe with possibilities, accepting of uniqueness and difference, and presenting endless opportunities. And maybe, from that, I can be a little bit cool.

Guess we’ll have to wait and see.

3 thoughts on “The Weird Mommy

  1. Welcome to my world. I agree with all the above and have a few of my own quirks. I am silly and make jokes and am almost 300 lbs. My clothes are constantly stained with some sort of food that was flung there by the baby (Yes, that is my story and I’m stickin’ to it). I tease the kids and say I am saving it for a snack later. I have nothing that is nice, my clothes are all “comfort clothes” and yes… my daughter does roll her eyes at me and gives me that “look.” But it all comes with the territory. I am also going to be the old lady mom, having Maddie at age 41. It is all how you act, not the number on your birth certificate. My oldest loves it when her friends all whisper when I go out of the room…”Your mom is soooo cool, I wish she was my mom.” and I get that other “look” over their heads as she grins at me and says, “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” Just enjoy it and live for the great moments and be yourself. Your child will just love you unconditionally no matter what. The rest doesn’t really matter.

  2. I guess all moms feel weird, in their own way. And as a wise woman told me, all kids think their parents are not cool! (But clearly YOU are A Cool Mom, since Oldest’s friends all say so!!) 🙂

    But you’re right. As long as you share love with your child, the rest falls away anyway.

  3. Weird Mom alert over here.

    First kid at 20? That’s not normal at all.

    Inability to get along with the other kindergarten moms? Well, I suppose referring to them as “vacuous twatbags” in the privacy of my own head makes it trickier.

    Refusing to let go of my inner goth and wearing all black, all the time? Funny hair colours? Weird music? Cranky? Atheist? I could go on. And on. And on.

    When Weasel gets to be a bit older she’s going to HATE me.

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