At my lowest point of new motherhood, I didn’t feel like a fit mother for my son. I was convinced that I wasn’t cut out for motherhood and sure that my son hated me. Even now, the wounds scabbed over, I love telling the receptionist at the pediatrician that I’m “William’s mom” when checking in for an appointment. I love the way “mama” sounds coming out of William’s mouth – more like “mo-ma.”
For the past few months though, William has been in a serious Dada phase. The word “mama” has a bite to it when it’s preceded by “no no mama” when I come in to scoop him up after his nap or try to saddle up next to him on the couch. The Dada phase is sweet, but my motherhood insecurities have resurfaced during this Dada stage. Sometimes I can’t help but scratch the itch and lay awake at night wondering if it’s not just a phase and instead a sign that I’m not as good of a parent as my husband. On good days, I smile, pick up my son, and say that Dada is coming but Mama is here now.