I really think that I may well be a stuck up mom. I don’t mean in that annoying way that my children are better than everybody else’s, though of course they are, but in the manner that dictates my compulsive need to not be singularly identified as a mother.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that though I am a mother and my world revolves around my children’s wants and needs, as well as my ego being wrapped in their trials and tribulations, that’s not all I am. I practice martial arts, ride a mountain bike recklessly over obstacles that would make most people consider their mortality, play rugby and rock climb. I’m more likely to be seen sporting a skinned knee than skinny jeans. I seriously doubt any of these other mothers do anything remotely close to the extracurricular activities which make me feel alive.
I’m not used to hanging out with moms and I fear that associating with other moms makes me less me; as if befriending other mothers makes me pedestrian. I have to somehow figure out how to balance being a mom and my slightly irrational need for dangerous stimuli. No, that’s denial at its most ridiculous. I must figure out how to stop projecting my fears of losing myself completely in my children, because that would be easy to do, onto to what are most likely wonderfully fascinating women. I am judging them exactly in the manner that I myself do not want to be judged- as just someone’s mother.