Motherhood…

There was a point in my life that the thought of having children repulsed me- didn’t want them, didn’t need them. And some twenty odd years later, I couldn’t imagine my life without them. I don’t want this to be an ode to my successes and failures as a mother; it’s a thank you to the brother that made me a first time mother. And I can take pride in the fact that he is not my ‘Baby Daddy’, but truly my son’s FATHER.

A brother walked into my life my freshman year and college; and while our lives took different paths we would have never guessed it would lead us to this place. He was seeing someone: I was seeing someone. A few years had passed, he graduated and I transferred and a chance meeting at a party brought old friends back together. He was on a mission and I was still trying to find some direction; yet for a time we were each other’s sounding board for loves long ago lost. But, in the early morning hours of July 22, 1992 we were blessed to bring into this world our son.

Aside from the dirty diapers, sleepless nights, tantrums and countless trips to the pediatrician a side of motherhood, no one ever speaks about started to appear. It’s that part of the road to motherhood, in which a woman comes to depend on the man that has help produce the child. I’m not talking about financial dependency, but the emotional, psychological and spiritual aspects that manifest itself, when both parents put aside their differences and feelings for one another and work together to raise their child.

Our road to parenthood was filled with many a bump in the road. Our relationship, didn’t last but our commitment to our son held us together. We each went about building our separate lives; which only added to the drama and stress. And when you couple that with a child that is as stubborn, arrogant, strong-willed and highly intelligent as the parents that produced him, fireworks are bound to be set-off.

Although I carried this child for nine months; endured a c-section; and nursed him. Dressed and bathed him. Stayed up with him through countless asthma and allergy attacks and wiped many a snotty nose. I was glad that it was his father who saw him take his first step and gave him his first hair cut. With each step and passage of time he was there for his son. Never had to take him to court for child support and didn’t have to go it alone for teacher/principal conferences. Even when my son started acting out; he was there- couldn’t label him an absent parent. With all of this I still didn’t feel like a mother until I had to make the decision, to cut the apron strings sooner than I wanted.

I knew deep in my heart that even with us co-parenting, open communication and support; there was only such much you could teach a child in a weekend. More was needed to get a black boy, living in the city of Baltimore to manhood. I could not teach him all the in’s and out’s of manhood that you can only get by being around a man 24/7. For all of my love and dedication, this strong black mother could not teach her son to be a man.

So two years ago, I made the decision to let my son live with his father. It was one of the best decisions I’ve made, ranking up there with the decision to have him. But don’t get it twisted his life with his father was no picnic. He gave his father hell. And in return his father set limits, made demands, crafted standards. For that I am thankful.

Motherhood doesn’t start with the birth of a child; it comes from a place in your spirit and soul when your connection to your child allows you to see, who you really are and why you were blessed to care for this blessing from G-d. Motherhood, for me began the day I saw my child walk out of the house with his father. Motherhood, began the day that I realized that in order to be a mother to my child, I had to let him be his father’s son.