“Selah, I’ve already asked you twice,” I say. “Please come clean up your toys.”

I expect her to have a meltdown, for her body to expand and her voice to erupt. I expect that I will have to restrain her from hitting me, that I will have to try to stay cool while I say, “I won’t let you do that.” I expect that at the end of all this, we will both end up in tears on the floor. My body braces for impact, a learned behavior from dozens (maybe hundreds?) of these moments over the past few years.

What I don’t expect to hear is a deep, exasperated sigh rumbling out of her three-year-old throat. In her breath there is an undercurrent of condescension and disdain. The noise is both new and familiar, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.

And then it hits me like a punch to the gut: she sounds exactly like me.

***

In the days that follow my daughter’s first derisive sigh, I hear my own everywhere. I sigh, then wash the dishes. I sigh, then flip the laundry. 

Selah asks me for a snack. Sigh. 

She refuses to brush her teeth. Sigh.

She stalls bedtime by begging me to answer one more question. Sigh.

I wince every time I hear myself, always realizing what I’ve done just a second too late. I wish I could stuff the sound back into my throat, along with the feelings that accompany it: my exasperation and impatience and self-importance.

What am I telling her with my very breath? I wonder. What am I telling her when I sigh at these very normal kid behaviors? That she is a nuisance? That I am unhappy? 

That this life I’ve built—motherhood and work and home and creativity—is something less than satisfying?

***

My own mother made motherhood seem like such a gift.

I used to compare myself to her, feeling inadequate because of my shallow wells of patience and joy. When my siblings and I were young, she never seemed to tire of being around us. I don’t remember her ever saying, “I just need some space,” a phrase I mutter at least half a dozen times a day.

I mentioned this to my mom one time, when Selah was two. Selah had just entered the pretend-play phase, and she asked incessantly for me to play princesses with her. When I would finally cave and say yes, we’d get through approximately two lines of dialogue before she’d shout, “Not like that! Say it like this!” or “No! You’re doing it wrong!” At which point I would sigh and tell her it’s not fun to play if she’s going to tell me what to do.

“How did you do it?” I asked my mom. “You stayed home with us and still loved being around us all the time. I pick her up from daycare at five and feel so done with parenting by six.”

“I didn’t love it all the time. Far from it,” she told me. “Don’t you remember how I avoided playing pretend? I would tiptoe past your room, hoping you wouldn’t hear me, because I knew if you did, you would ask me to play. And half the time you did ask, I said no.”

“I don’t remember that at all,” I said.

“I was tired all the time,” she told me. “Don’t you remember how often I would snap? How much I yelled?”

“Did you though?” I asked. “I remember you playing Barbies with me on the floor and cuddling with me in bed as long as I wanted. You always made me feel like there was nowhere else you’d rather be.”

“I promise you that sometimes I wanted to run away,” she assured me.

“You know, Selah started sighing the other day,” I told her. “She sounds so much like me it’s scary.”

She nodded. “You got that from me.”

***

Selah and I are in the minivan, waiting in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru line. She was cooperative and helpful at Target, and her reward is a dinner of chicken strips, waffle fries, and a strawberry milkshake. This is a treat for me, too—I can’t take another night of her refusing to even look at the meal I cooked.

I hear her little voice float up from the seat behind me, and I turn down Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” so I can hear her better.

“Can you say that again, Love?” 

“I wish I could be a real mommy,” she says, disappointment saturating every word.

I take a beat to imagine what might be under her desire. Her words trouble me, as I have worked hard to show her that women can do more than be mothers. I have tried to communicate that I don’t expect her to be a mother at all if she doesn’t want to. Still, she affectionately calls her stuffed animals her “babies,” and tries to mother her little brother alongside me

I decide to validate her feelings but keep it casual. (My parenting style, in a nutshell.)

“You’re a mommy to your stuffed animals, and you take good care of them. And someday, you can be a real mommy. When you’re bigger. You know, if you want to.” 

“I don’t want to be a real mommy someday,” she protests. “I want to be a real mommy now!”

“Why now?”

“Because I want to be a real mommy with you. I want to be mommies together.”

It’s our turn at the window. A teenage girl hands me our food as I mull over Selah’s words.

“Why do you want to be mommies together?” I ask as I pull out of the drive-thru lane.

“Because you are nice and I love you.”

***

Through the conversation with my mother, it dawned on me that I remember almost exclusively the good stuff from our home life. How safe I felt, how secure and loved. But when I examine the picture more carefully, details begin to sharpen that I didn’t even realize were there.

My mother used to take us to McDonald’s multiple nights a week. At the time, I thought it was just for fun, but now I wonder if she was burned out on cooking for picky eaters.

When I was five, she taught me how to turn on the TV and make my own cereal in the mornings. I thought it was because I was so grown up and responsible, but now I see that she was desperate for more sleep.

On warm September nights, my mother would send us outside to play after school. I thought it was so we could enjoy the last dregs of summer, but now I have a hunch that she simply needed a break.

How will Selah make sense of me? I often wonder. Will my sighing be the soundtrack of her memories? Or will it be me singing “You Are My Sunshine” every night as we lay in her big-girl bed? Will she remember afternoon quiet time as something special for her, or as something her exhausted mother needed in order to maintain her sanity? Will she know, really know, how much she tests me and, at the same time, how much I love being her mother?

I hope with time she will come to see me not as an exemplar nor as an antihero, but as a human. I hope her mental picture of me will grow more complex. I hope she will remember not just my best and worst moments, but many more in between. I hope her memories of our everyday life will speak to the richness of what it means to be someone’s mother.

***

“Mommy, can I have some of your breast pads?” Selah asks me as I finish snapping her baby brother’s pajamas.

“Sure, Love. What are you going to use them for?” I ask her.

“Well, I need to feed my babies, but I don’t want my milk to drip all over.”

I stifle a giggle and grab a fresh pair of pads out of the box. I unwrap each one, remove the adhesive backing, and help her stick them to the inside of her unicorn dress.

The three of us sit down on the couch together: my son latched to my breast, his fingers winding themselves into my hair; my daughter next to us, her beloved Kitty smushed against her chest. She mimics drinking sounds and then lifts Kitty over her shoulder for a burp.

“Good burp, Kitty! Awww, you’re so sweet! I just love you so much!”

“Where did you learn to say that?” I ask her.

She turns her little face toward mine. “From you, Mommy.”

Guest essay written by Brittany L. Bergman. Brittany is a writer who is passionate about telling stories that provide refreshment, connection, and encouragement to mothers who don’t want to lose sight of their identity. She lives in the suburbs of Chicago with her husband and their two children. Her first book about the transformative nature of pregnancy releases in August 2020. You can sign up for her email list or follow her on Instagram to learn more.

Photo by N’tima Preusser.