Perpetual Late Bloomer
What it feels like to finally stop putting yourself last.
I’m a late bloomer. I mean this literally when referring to my childhood. I was small for my age, wearing kids’ clothes long after my friends started shopping in the juniors’ section. I got a bra in 7th grade but didn’t really need it until high school. I was everyone’s favorite “kid sister” and the top of my head was everyone’s favorite arm rest. I could pass for ‘12 and under’ at 15, and my parents took advantage of the cheaper movie tickets, much to my chagrin. I was a tiny girl with big dreams. I wanted to sing on big stages, write best-selling books, become someone important.
My body caught up to my friends’ eventually, and I stopped being tiny around age 17. I grew into a curvy-but-basically-average-sized human. It’s taken years of practice to quiet the mean girl in my head who insists I should still be tiny. She hurls insults from time to time, but I hear her less often now. One of the perks of getting older- you stopping giving a shit about what everyone think about you.
All those years of being young for my age filled me with a fire to do some social catching up. I’d been last to give up dolls, last to be kissed, last to “go all the way” with a boy. I jumped feet first into adult life. I got engaged at the ripe old age of 20 and was married soon after my 22nd birthday. I probably should have shopped around a bit more, but hidsight is 20/20. The next 10 years were a balancing act between my husband’s priorities and my own desire to hurry to the next stage of life. At 25, I suffered a miscarriage. An accidental baby that my husband saw as an unwanted burden became a burning desire in me once lost. I was a mother without a baby. I felt the emptiness of my womb so acutely that I can remember nothing but ache from those days. Then, at 26, I had my first child. From the moment I held her, nothing else mattered. Motherhood was surely the important thing I had been destined for.
When another baby followed 17 months later, my life was completely consumed with the act of nourishing and supporting two young lives. There wasn’t time for a shower, let alone time to pursue a career. I threw myself into parenting. My spouse’s work was his priority, which left 98% of the child-rearing to me. My girls deserved the best, and I was the only person with time to give it to them. At the time, I didn’t doubt my role at all. I was ‘mom’ and that was enough.
When my oldest went to kindergarten, I watched her from the classroom door with tears in my eyes just like all the other moms. I watched her bite her bottom lip with worry as I bit mine. When I glanced around, I saw the teacher- busy in her work. I saw other moms in suits, keys jangling as they headed to the office. I glanced down at my hoodie and felt that familiar late bloomer feeling creep up on me again. I had been so busy with #momlife that I had completely forgotten to go back to school and obtain that all-important career, as had always been my vague, distant plan. Once again, the others left me in their dust.
I am not trying to imply that being a full-time mother is not a worthwhile career. I believe that feminism means choice. I had always wanted to have a career, and I had tabled it in favor of raising kids. I could have been happy with stay-at-home parenting, as a lot of women are. I wasn’t. At least, not fully. I had that empty ache again- only this time I ached for the classes I never took, master’s degree I hadn’t earned, and a career that was undefined as of yet but out there, nonetheless, calling to me.
It took about two more years from that moment to do something about it. I finally went back to school and got that Master’s degree I had always wanted. My first day of grad school, the kids both got a stomach bug and I had to leave them, nauseous, puking and crying with my mother-in-law. (Bless her.) The mom guilt was so heavy I almost couldn’t walk out the door. I cried all the way to school and all the way home. I fretted about them all day. It was torture. I had so many moments of accute mom guilt as I transitioned to working mom life. There were moments that felt insurmountable. I still have those moments now, as a full-time working mom.
What’s changed? Well, the challenging moments are worth it to me now. I no longer put myself last. I spent my youth listening to my parents and over ten years of my young adulthood listening to my ex-husband. I did what I was told. I waited for things I wanted and I waited for life to happen to me. On top of that, I poured everything I had into being a mom. I lost every sense of who I was, or who I intended to be. I was a shell. Don’t get me wrong. I wildly adore my children and being a parent is -hands down- the greatest thing I’ve ever done. It’s also not who I am, and it is not the most interesting thing about me. I’m an educator. I’m heading back to school this Summer to finish up my reading endorsement because I have a passion for literacy. I am writing a novel. I love to play canasta. I read every mystery novel I can get my hands on. I go on adventures with my husband and I basically do whatever I please.
My children are becoming better people because they know that my life doesn’t revolve around them. I am becoming a better person because I unapologetically prioritize my own well-being. I highly recommend it.
