My Old-Fashioned–Or Otherwise–Choice

The guest post I promised, from Mary Burkholder, author of My Other Name Is Mom.

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Something happened to me thirteen years ago that changed my life forever. I had a baby, and he made me a mother.

When I was a little girl, I loved babies. I was irresistibly drawn to their tiny, perfect cuteness. I’d rock them and pat them, if their mothers would let me, and experience infinite pride if one fell asleep in my arms. I couldn’t have articulated everything I felt then, but I understood that babies were unique to my sex; I knew only women could become pregnant and breastfeed babies. I anticipated becoming a woman, wondering at things I did not understand and waiting for the development of my femininity. I wanted to be a mom.

As I grew older, I dreamed of other things I could do and be. Motherhood looked less magical as I understood more about the sacrifice behind it. Sometimes I sketched and dreamed of being an artist. One day I discovered the joy of putting words on paper, words slipping from my pen as easily as the ink flowed. I had always loved to read so much that I sometimes read in my dreams, waking disappointed to find the page fading away from me before I could finish it. What if I could write books that would become someone’s favorite books? Maybe, I thought, I could stay single, so I’d have more time to write. I would have my own house, my own car, my own life. I would write bestsellers all day. 

Then I met the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I was somewhat ambivalent about having babies at that point, but I knew I didn’t want to grow old never having had children by choice. The environment I was raised in deeply instilled in me the value of family. I come from a family of nine children, and I knew my parents loved children. My church setting valued family life and children. Pregnant women were excitedly congratulated, baby showers joyfully planned, meals eagerly provided for new moms. This magnificent thing that only a woman could do was embraced and supported by all the women in her life. Every woman she knew was happy for her when they heard the news at last. The details mattered: What did he weigh? How long was she? Does he have hair? Who does she look like? This last all-consuming question can be debated for months or years, everyone weighing in with often completely opposing opinions. The rituals are lovely and affirming… Still, I understood that I would sacrifice a lot of freedom to have babies; I was selfish enough to not be excited about that. 

So, I got married, and the choice to have children became reality. Fifteen months later, the scent of breakfast bacon suddenly became something I couldn’t have in the same room with me. I dashed to the bathroom. Later that day, I stared at the positive result on the pregnancy test, feeling a surge of something new, exciting, and scary. I carried life. This thing that could happen only to a woman had happened to me. My life didn’t change just at his birth; it began to change then—the day the test was positive. In the psychological sense, I was a mother already. Even here, I could not have turned back. 

Before I got married, I had worked part-time for a woman who cared for mentally handicapped patients in her home. After a couple years of teaching school, I was writing my first book and planning a wedding. I welcomed the mindless activities: cleaning, laundry, picking up groceries, going through the attic and storage room. It bothered her to have me digging around in her dusty attic, scrubbing her dirty toilets, and changing vomited-on sheets. She thought I was too intelligent for it and let me know I ought to be more ambitious.

Sometimes, after our lunch at the kitchen table, when the patients had finished their peanut butter and jelly and wandered away, she’d educate me on my possibilities. Coffee cup in one hand, the scent of her cigarette habit lingering, she would tell me how to pursue a nursing degree, because the medical field was where a woman could progress the farthest and make the most money. It seemed irrelevant to her that I was getting married and even that I had no interest in nursing. A woman needed to have goals in life. Mostly she needed to be equipped to support herself. She didn’t say it directly, but being a wife and mother was not a goal. I understood her perspective—she was divorced and her recently divorced daughter had just moved back in with her. From her perspective, a woman had to be capable of fending for herself. 

I listened respectfully. But in spite of any inward struggles, I still subscribed to an old-fashioned belief system which I had seen stand the test of time: abstinence till marriage, one man and one woman for life, children if God willed, homemaking. I know that being a stay-at-home mom is unfashionable these days when women ought to be asserting their rights, protecting their wombs, freezing their eggs, and breaking glass ceilings. But I still made that choice. I love my life, and I wouldn’t go back even if I could.

To some I may seem a slave to patriarchy, willingly checking in my brain and my freedom every day to serve my family. But maybe I am making the world a better place by equipping my children for their future. Maybe I have more influence in my own sphere than I would if I put on a business suit and checked into an office every morning. Maybe some things do not grow old-fashioned but are proven to be timeless.

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Mary Burkholder is a pastor’s wife, author and mom to five children, ages four to thirteen. Her most recent book, My Other Name Is Mom, is a mom book with a different approach. Mary outlines the importance of motherhood in a culture heavily influenced by feminism. She also tackles some common struggles of motherhood. The book does not focus on unreachable ideals but on freeing yourself from guilt and discouragement and mothering well in all your imperfection. You can locate all her books and sign up for her newsletter on Mary’s Bookshelf. 

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash