Our Philly editor kicks off this new column about all the tiny, seemingly insignificant “tokens” of motherhood that mean nothing to most people, but that can bring a new or seasoned mom to her knees. For Mollie, it’s a stuffed giraffe to which even her children aren’t particularly attached.
If you’ve been a parent for more than a few weeks or months, you have no doubt experienced the bizarre phenomenon of a particular toy or stuffed animal disappearing – unnoticed by your children – for days, weeks, months, before it suddenly pops up again at bedtime or randomly unearthed during a particularly intense playroom destruction. Suddenly, that long forgotten toy is the center of your child’s world again – if only for a day, week, or month – until they’re distracted by another shiny object.
Such is the case in my house when it comes to this tiny stuffed giraffe. It’s nondescript and small. My children are neither overjoyed nor dismayed when it is unearthed. But, every time it appears, this giraffe annihilates me. It tears me asunder. Sometimes, I grab it when they’re not looking, sneak into the bathroom and lock the door. And, there I sit, trying to recapture the day I first laid eyes on this treasure.
It was late in 2008. I was pregnant with my firstborn. The Brooklyn apartment I lived in with my relatively new husband was filling with baby stuff that I now know was completely unnecessary, but at the time seemed as vital as food or water (Bugaboo or Uppa? How do you CHOOSE!?!?!). We visited my parents in Illinois that Christmas and most of the gifts under the tree weren’t for me, but for the baby. This was completely fine with me. At this point, motherhood was still an abstraction, made real only by the sheer volume of things I could collect that would make my life as a new parent filled with ease, sunshine, happiness and sheer bliss (ha ha ha). And then, my mom gave me this tiny, insignificant stuffed giraffe. And I was undone.
To this day, I don’t know what happened, but I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Holy f*ck, I thought. This kid I’m growing is going to need toys. He/She will play with these toys. This child will walk and talk and be an actual person that I’m responsible for shepherding into adulthood in the hopes they don’t turn into a sociopath or a narcissist. Also, this thing in my belly is going to be a teenager. I remember being a teenager and I don’t know how my parents survived me! Mother of Pearl, what have I done? What am I doing? I know nothing about being a Mother With a Capital M. I hid that giraffe and tried to pretend that my flushed, tearful face was just because the heat was too high in my parents’ house. Because, you know, pregnancy.
And tonight, seven and a half years later, I was combing the house for my four year old’s favorite stuffed elephant and stumbled upon this damned giraffe (I never found the elephant; we may never sleep again). I hadn’t seen it in a while, perhaps as long as a couple of years. But, it was like going back in time. Those feelings of doubt, angst and fear slammed into me all over again. And then I looked across the room at my two little girls, arguing over which book they wanted to read after dinner, and I knew I could breathe through it. Because so far, I’ve kept them alive. So far, they are pretty awesome humans. And tonight, I’m a mom who actually (maybe, possibly) knows what she’s doing at least 30 percent of the time. Until they’re teenagers, at least.
And that, my friends, is what it’s all about. Remembering where we came from, relishing where we are, and not thinking too hard about what’s to come. That is Motherhood With a Capital M.
Mollie Michel is a South Philly resident and a Philadelphia public school parent. A recovering non-profit professional, Mollie is also an experienced birth doula, Certified Lactation Counselor, and the mom of two awesome girls and a sweet pit bull named Princess Cleopatra. In her spare time, she is usually trying to figure out how Pinterest works, training for a(nother) half-marathon with her dog at her side, or simply trying to keep up with her increasingly wily daughters.