I Hide Behind My Children
My daughter’s therapist makes small talk:
“What are your plans for the summer?”
We see this therapist every week, but we only discuss the kids, not our own adult lives.
“Oh, Gemma starts a new therapy in session in two weeks! And her brother Harry is going to day camp. They’ll have so much fun.”
Question answered. My personal details spared. On to the next interaction.
A dear friend tells me, lamenting the state of her conversations:
“I cherish my children, but sometimes I want to talk about something else.”
I feel the same way. I want to talk about creativity and feelings and worries and hope and the future and dreams and everything that happens in my head. Everything.
But often, I don’t talk about them. Or rather, I won’t.
Because to talk about those things and to answer personal questions in real time is to be vulnerable, and not in a measured, calculated way. Not in a blog or an essay, but in a conversation, where someone can respond to me and be free to be shut down my idea or shut out my solution or not acknowledge my thought process. It’s opening myself up to be hurt, ever so slightly. It’s giving another person a little piece of my thoughts; something that’s mine until it’s someone else’s, free to be twisted or misinterpreted or perhaps even just underappreciated.
And so, I do not directly answer about my plans or my thoughts or my dreams. I deflect. I evade. Because I have now birthed two humans who have fundamentally altered my identity and my priorities and the way I am viewed in the world, I have the perfect diversion. I do not have to answer personal questions about myself whenever I am feeling raw or vulnerable. I can change the trajectory of this conversation. I can talk about these two small humans instead. I can hide behind my children.
“How are things at home?” my mom asks over the phone.
My eyes glance around the room strewn with toys, food, and formerly clean laundry, and I respond, “We’re great. Everyone is good. Harry still loves his Matchbox cars. I find them in every room of the house. Boys, right?”
I love her, and I appreciate our chats, but I do not have energy to divulge more. We move on to discuss better storage tactics.
I can’t tell you when this phenomenon began. When I first started talking about my children as a substitute for talking about myself. Motherhood is blurry enough. At the beginning, you and your child are one unit, interconnected and enmeshed. But a moment later, your little being, once part of you, is now out in the world having experiences and epiphanies that you once felt but have long since forgotten. I can’t recall the joy of my first time eating a blueberry. But I can still see the wonder radiating from Harry’s face the first time he tasted one. By this point, he is my world. He takes up all of my time and energy. I wake up thinking about him and go to sleep thinking about him. Why wouldn’t I discuss his life as my own?
His grandparents and aunts and uncles lived far away. He was new and fun and exciting. Of course, they want to hear his stories. And conscious or not, I gave them story after story. I shared so many glimpses into his life while withholding my own.
When Gemma was born with a rare genetic disease two years later, I added another layer: medical mom. Now when Harry’s stories run dry, I can list all of Gemma’s appointments instead. Her medical activity and therapies are a bottomless reserve of conversation topics. Some of it is vital knowledge to impart, like when we have to make a hospital visit. Some of it is merely a diversion. I can talk about her medical history, but I don’t have to talk about my feelings on it.
“What should we make for dinner?” my husband wants to know.
“If we make burgers and fries, Har will eat it with us.”
I also love burgers and fries. I don’t know why I need to use my son to justify having my favorite dinner. But, I do anyway.
Everything I do is framed by motherhood. Even the way I view myself. Why shouldn’t my conversations be framed similarly?
Why? What’s the harm?
I think it’s twofold.
First, Harry is no longer a baby. Not even a toddler. He’s so far removed from the time when he was part of me. We do not live quite the same life. He has moments away from me, with grandparents and at school. We do not share all of the exact same experiences anymore. And he is developing a voice to be able to tell his own stories on his own terms. Every moment of his life is not mine to tell. If I am mining his life, or Gemma’s for that matter, merely to avoid sharing my own, I am doing him a disservice. I am infringing upon his autonomy. And for what? To soothe my own discomfort?
But buried deeper still is another truth. By speaking only about my children, I rob myself of deeper relationships. I rob myself of the ability to know and to be known. To see and to be seen. To let others surprise me, in the ways that they wonder about my dreams and my hopes and share in my fears and feelings. To embrace my ideas and ponder my solutions and encourage my plans. When I hide behind a shield of motherhood, I take from myself the optimism I feel about humanity, whether it be the humans I birthed or the ones I met at the YMCA yesterday.
Without saying as much, my dear friend made it clear: I am a mother, but I am not only a mother. To pretend otherwise is not sacrificial or brave. It is the action of a fearful person, building out walls of loneliness masquerading as nobility. I owe my children a mother who does not pretend that she is solely defined in relation to her offspring. I don’t just owe that to my children, I owe that to myself.
ALYSSA NUTILE is an artist, writer, mother of two, and advocate living on the shores of Lake Erie in Erie, Pennsylvania. Her daughter Gemma has a debilitating genetic disease, and Alyssa’s work focuses on the emotional, mental, and physical realities of loving, parenting, and advocating for a medically complex child. She’s currently writing a graphic memoir about her pregnancy and first year of life with Gemma. You can see more of her writing and artwork at AlyssaNutile.com and follow our daily life on Instagram @alyssanewt.
