Mothering on my terms.

Errr....this is somewhat of an awkward post for me to write. Remember I said that I had posts to write but never got them published? One of them was this post. If you think I'm pregnant while reading this, I'm not. :)

The day that I threw in the towel on being a mother was the day I saw a picture in my sister's book. I'm not sure what book it was (perhaps physiology?) but I think it was for a high school class.

Here's what it was, or at least what I can piece together from my six-year-old memory: one gigantic needle lodged in a swollen belly. Sounds morbid and gross? IT WAS. And it was enough to scar me to this day. I think I decided right then and there that if that's what being pregnant was--being subject to various pokes and prods with a mile-long needle--then I wasn't going to have kids. Nope.

Even growing up, kids never really appealed to me. I wasn't the type of girl dying to maul someone else's baby or oogling over Little Timmy's trip to the loo. Once in the car, I remember telling my mom that I didn't want to have kids. She seemed a little disappointed.

Nor did I ever dream about whittling about the house all day while my child slept peacefully in his rocker. I didn't want to be the woman that frantically stumbled into sacrament meeting with a frilly, lacy diaper bag over her shoulder. My mom wasn't like this, but I'm the youngest so I never saw her raise someone younger than me.

For some reason, although I don't think I ever personally knew moms that fit this description, this was the image plastered into my mind. This was the mold I had to fit to become a mom. And I didn't like it. There was also the never-ending feeling that once I became a mother, I wouldn't be me anymore. I would have to give up interests, hobbies and ambitions. Moms worry, too. I don't like to worry.

I don't remember the day when things started changing for me. It might have been a few years after I graduated from high school. It might have been when I married Mark. Or, it might have been the day I grew up a little.

I started learning about alternative medicine and different ways to give birth other than being tied up in a hospital bed. I learned about making my own baby food, cloth diapering, and baby wearing. Weird to most? Yes. Weird to me? Absolutely not.

Some call this kind of parenting "crunchy." Crunchy as in granola. I'm not sure about the word crunchy (it's on my list of annoying sounding words) but I'll definitely take granola. The whole practice just seems right to me.

As I've discussed this with other women my age, they look at me as if I live in a fantasy world. Exasperations from mothers saying something to the extent of, "Well, you just wait until you have those contractions!" or, "But disposable diapers are just so much easier!" always seemed to leave me down in the dumps. Last week, a coworker mentioned the topic of me eating meat during pregnancy and asked me if I would give in if I craved it. I proudly stated that I wouldn't touch it. Another coworker decided this would be the prime opportunity to tell me that I needed to eat meat, and that I shouldn't have kids unless I plan on eating it. The kids need it, she said.

The rest of work dragged on. I left feeling that if I want to have kids the way I plan on having them, that it will be an uphill battle with people's comments and opinions. Discouraging, to say the least.

Have you ever found where you belong, or have aspirations to get where you belong, only to have someone tell you that it's stupid?

I think I have finally found the definition for how I want to be as a mother. And it fits for me. To everyone else who thinks I'm looney: Sorry, I'm not. I'm marching to the beat of a different drummer.

Today, I asked Mark if he would care if we raised our kids that way. He looked at me, smiled and said, "Of course not. You're going to be the mother."