What's your name, man?

Identity is a concept I have struggled with for most of my adult life. Who am I? How do I describe myself? Is it what you put in a bio? A list of accomplishments followed by “lives in Maplewood, NJ”? 

For a long while I thought my identity was what I did for a living: performer, server, event sales. Then after Adelaide was diagnosed and Miguel booked Hamilton, I wasn’t making a living, so that no longer worked. At which point my identity became my relationship to others: Miguel’s wife, Jackson and Adelaide’s mom. But that didn’t feel sufficient either. I dove head first into being an ‘epilepsy mom’ or a ‘mom of a disabled child’ because that felt like more - but more of what? I wasn’t sure. Just more. This also got extremely complicated after Adelaide died because I lost these titles along with her. 

The one title I held on to was mom. Yes, I still have a living child but regardless, death can never take that title away. Once a mom, always a mom. That said, I’ve not always been comfortable with this title either. I love being a mom and I love when my children call me mommy - and dread the day that changes to simply, “mom” - but it is very easy for a woman to lose herself in the name. Especially when she isn’t working outside the home, or has a medically complex child, or both. 

I wrote about this experience at length in one of my first blog posts, “Are you mom?”:

When staying inpatient, your only identity is your relation to the patient. Nurses, doctors, therapists, everyone called me mom. 

“Mom, how is Adelaide doing today?” 

“Mom, can I get you anything?” 

“Good morning! Are you mom?”

‘Are you mom’ was such a common question, still is. I’ve wanted to scream: “YES! Yes I am Adelaide’s mother but I am also a whole lot of other things!”. It’s not important for them to know my name of course, Adelaide is what matters. I’m not suggesting otherwise, but after spending a week, two weeks, a month in the hospital, that loss of identity takes a toll.

I was so desperate for people to know that I was more than Adelaide’s mom or Miguel’s wife… and then fate slapped me in the face.

This past Thanksgiving, Strawbaby had been with us for a whopping three weeks, so we decided to host a few friends at our home instead of going anywhere in hopes of keeping her experience as safe and familiar as possible. It was still a very long day, with a skipped nap and an abundance of new smells and people. When it came time for bed and there were still people in our house, an incredibly overtired Strawbaby fought me hard. After wrestling her into pj’s she escaped her room. Lip quivering and face stained with tears she ran screaming into our friend’s arms yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!”

“Any mommy in a storm.” Someone joked. 

My chest tightened and I desperately tried to contain the flood of emotions fighting to break free inside me. I was heartbroken and jealous that she was calling another woman mommy that she had only just met that day. I was embarrassed that our friends would think I was doing a poor job parenting, or wonder what I had done wrong for this child to call someone else mommy. I was also exhausted from hosting Thanksgiving and frustrated from fighting with a toddler and just really really wanted Strawbaby to go to bed. 

But mostly I wanted her to know that I was her Mommy. 

Oh, the many many layers of this scene - starting with the fact that Strawbaby has had multiple Mommies. This also wouldn’t be the last time she called another woman mommy, or a random man daddy for that matter. She spent half her life in a pandemic with little exposure to the outside world. What she knew came from cartoon shows where all the adults are called, that’s right, Mommy and Daddy. Also, hello, she had only been with us for three weeks. That she called me mommy at all was a gift.

I didn’t just want her to call me mommy, though. I wanted her to understand what that word - Mommy with a capital M - meant, what it should mean: someone who loves you unconditionally, someone who is a beacon of comfort and support, someone who will always come back to you.

And she’s beginning to. Actually, it’s been fascinating to watch her observe family dynamics as she has met other families outside of our own. To see her grasp her own name and identity and proudly introduce herself to literally EVERYONE she meets. I’m still struggling with who I am, or maybe more specifically how I want to be perceived. What I do know is that I’ve begun to take a certain pride in my title as Mom that I hadn’t had before. It’s grounded in appreciation as I now understand so acutely that the ‘typical’ motherhood experience that we anticipate is not a given (if it even exists) and how easily the physical aspects of motherhood can be taken away.

“Hi, my name Strawbaby,” she didn’t say that, she said her actual name, but for all my efforts to keep her name off of the internet, she is telling all the people in line at Target… “And this my Mommy.”

“Hi Strawbaby, it’s nice to meet you. You too, Mommy.” The woman at the register smiled, clearly taken by this confident and friendly three year old before her.

“It’s nice to meet you as well.” I smiled back. There was no way this kind woman would ever know how much this exchange meant to me.