Blood narratives

We as a culture – perhaps as a species – are very much prone to getting tangled up in blood narratives. We’re obsessed with the ‘importance’ of biological kin; blood relatives. The magnitude of this infatuation can be observed in common colloquialisms -- “blood is thicker than water," for instance.

I can recall conversations with an ex in which he clung adamantly to this ideology. The concept of adoption was completely unappealing to him. He believed the connection to a biological child was somehow mystical; more important, significant. While I’m sure there is an otherworldly joy to produce a child of one’s own, I can’t help but feeling as though the importance of blood narratives is a fallacy. Yes, there are elements of raising a biological child that inherently carry their own uniqueness – seeing elements of your self (both physically and personality-wise) in your offspring and – for women – the actual process of childbirth. But it’s undeniable that these elements are completely disconnected from the actual role of being a PARENT. It baffled me that my ex couldn’t grasp this, especially given that HIS biological parents were far from being folks who epitomized parental love. In fact, the only people in his life who treated him “like family” – meaning with unconditional love and support – were those were those with whom he did not share genetic material. His stepfather David. MY parents. They were the ones who loved him. One would think he’d be able to see this quite clearly. But, like so many others in society, he was captivated by blood narratives.

Though it seems silly and short-sighted, I suppose there’s an element of evolutionary psychology at play here. A subconscious desire to connect with, protect -- heck, produce -- those with shared DNA. I’m interested in this, especially, as it relates to the Cinderella syndrome –- the increased propensity for domestic abuse in step-children/step-parent scenarios. Look it up; it’s fascinating. And, of course, sad.

In my quest to understand and own my own womanhood, I am constantly berated with the idea that one cannot truly “be a woman” if she is not a mother. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve had absolutely no desire whatsoever to give birth to a child. As a prepubescent girl, I’d aggressively insist that I’d never have children. My parents would brush my statements off, insisting that my mind would change when I hit puberty. When I hit puberty, my stance remained. “Just wait until you’re grown up, your mind will change,” my mother insisted. I grew up, uh…no change. “Wait until you’re in love. You’ll want to have a baby when you’re truly in love,” she bayed. At 19, I fell in love; still no desire to push an 8-pound lump of anything out of any orifice of my body. I’m wholly off-put by the entire process. “That biological clock will start ticking and those maternal instincts will kick in. You’ll see.” I don’t know why my poor mother wouldn’t just accept that she’d be getting no grandbabies from this member of the family. In the preconditioned environment that pushes the idea of motherhood on female children, the fact that – despite said conditioning – I had no interest in dolls … well, that should have been warning sign numero uno. I’m pushing 30 now, and I have yet to find a bone in my body (uh, pun?) that wants to give birth.

As nauseated as I am by the biological aspect of motherhood, I’ve been discovering recently that mothering is a term that – at its core – has nothing at all to do with the actual act of childbearing. Mothering encompasses myriad acts – care, guidance, and nurturance. Absorbing and abating the pain of your children. Loving, teaching, guiding, protecting.

People often react with quizzical looks (looks of bloody horror, sometimes) when I say I never want to have children. Perhaps motherhood is expected of me merely as a byproduct of my age and gender. Perhaps it’s because I do possess the quintessential characteristics for mothering. Heck, I’ve been mothering grown-ass men for years. And it has no correlation to raising children or giving birth. The looks of bloody horror, admittedly, are emitted mostly by women of a different generation – grandmothers, great-aunts, elderly ladies at the library with whom I chat. I can excuse their confusion and subsequently rude response; for them, motherhood was the sole defining factor of their existence. For them, I feel pity.

A whole lot of people can pop children out. And you know what? That does not make them mothers.