I always felt a bit bashful about admitting to my
friends that I wanted to have children. I think a big clue as to why lies in
the choice of that word: ‘admitted’. It felt like something I wouldn’t say,
somehow out of character. And I think that’s probably because it doesn’t sound
particularly ambitious or aspirational, or indeed particularly fun.
There is something about announcing you want to be
a mother which seems harder than saying you want to be a neuroscientist / start
an NGO in Nepal / write the Next Great American Novel. Unlike the vote, or
having a career, or even owning your own house, motherhood has always been an
option available to women. Not just an option, in many cases, but an
expectation. Choosing to be a mother seemed like getting to the end of
rationing and then choosing to have a spam sandwich for lunch. In a world of so
much choice, why limit yourself? Why be so conventional? Why – dare I say it –
be so boring?
I’ve been thinking about this a lot since I got
pregnant, and I think what I’ve concluded is that this attitude was (wrongly)
founded on the belief that motherhood eclipses all other aspects of a woman’s
identity. Telling people you want to be a mum felt like telling them you didn’t
want to be yourself any more. Partly this is because there are some things
which you will need to stop/limit/pause when you have children, from career
breaks to temporarily retiring your collection of Clippers and posh airport
vodka. What you do defines, to some extent, who you are – especially when you
do those things with your friends. So you feel a little guilt about not being
‘fun’ for a while and, if you like your job, you feel a bit bad for skipping
out on it for a few months. But beyond temporarily removing myself from the
classroom and the pub post-8pm, I felt scared that people might think I’d just
gone a bit weird – somehow more wholesome or less interested in the world
around me, or the aspects of my life not to do with having a child.
I counteracted all these fears in several ways.
Firstly, by having friends who wouldn’t dream of being anything other than
hugely supportive and excited on my behalf. Secondly, by considering my own
mother, who is one of the most gregarious and fun-loving people in my life, and
who has managed to have a stellar career, a wonderful social life, and three
children. Finally, for a brief but insane period, I turned to Wikipedia to find
out whether almost any celebrity I came across has children. Sharon Horgan!
Lily Allen! Chimamanda Adichie! Jessica Alba! I consoled myself by thinking
about all the wonderful women in the world who happened to be mothers amongst
many other things. Mad, possibly, but effective.
I am not arguing that becoming a mother is not
profound or, indeed life-changing, but it is not personality-altering. Babies
steal many things – sleep, your ability to shower properly – but they are not
identity thieves. I may never be as cool as Sharon Horgan, but neither am I going
to turn into the cardboard mother-monster of my nightmares, obsessed with
pastel tones and organic cake. The baby might have arrived, but my personality
doesn’t have to depart.
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