She’s not mine
Melbourne writer Laura Roscioli always assumed she would be a mother. Then, as life unfurled, those assumptions gave way to an appreciation of what was right in front of her.
Written by Laura Roscioli
Growing up, my mother was my North Star; the best part of every day. When my first grade teacher asked the class one day, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’, it felt only natural for me to reply, without hesitation, ‘Just like my mum.’
When I was younger, we licked ice creams at windy beaches together; we picked out bows for her to tie around my extremely neat buns; we rode the train into the city and watched the ballet, both enchanted by the storytelling and elegant movements of the dancers on stage. I loved her comforting scent, like white linen just out of the dryer, her complicated coffee order, her reassuring smile, her soft hands and her gold stack of sentimental rings. She made everything better by simply being — and I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be a mum.
For my fourth birthday, I asked for a Baby Bjorn. Specifically, the special version that would actually pee into a nappy after you’d fed it a bottle. And for every birthday after that, I asked for a baby sister. When my wish came true, just after eighth birthday, I made it my life mission to be her second mother. My parents let me name her — Isabella Rose — and she was my pride and joy. I’d look after her while our mum slept. I’d play dress-ups, Barbies and tea parties with her. I couldn’t believe that a ‘job’ could be so fun. It seemed then that being maternal was my destiny.
Even from a young age, society constantly reinforces the idea that motherhood is a woman’s natural role. We’re socialised by the toys we’re targeted with (Baby Bjorns, naturally, are a big culprit) and told stories using language that equates femininity with caregiving. I was showered with compliments — by family, strangers in cafes and friends of my parents — on my natural ‘nurturing’ of my little sister, praised for baking cakes, folding laundry and wearing pretty dresses. While those things felt natural to me as a young girl, part of me wonders whether my ease and ‘natural’ ability came from positive reinforcement rather than my own instinct. In The Second Sex (1949), Simone de Beauvoir theorises that “the mother’s love is a sentiment that is imposed upon her by society, and its perpetuation is due more to the pressures of social conditioning than to a biological necessity” — an idea that I come back to often.
My mother embodied this societal role, by simply being a wonderful mother. For her it was a choice, and one that she’s remained loyal to throughout my life. She always tells me that I was her dream come true, that I am her pride and purpose. As a child, she was my example of the perfect woman. In many ways, she still is.
But I don’t want to be a mother anymore.
My maternal instincts seemed to dissipate once I was on my own and realised that the dream I’d been sold — respectful men who brought security, care, romance and joy — weren’t waiting for me around every corner.
I left home at 18, fell in love with an emotionally unavailable musician, got my heart broken, moved states and spent most of my twenties learning what it means to be a modern, independent woman. Being a mother felt as impossible as buying a house or finding a man who would write back — pleasures from an earlier age. It seemed to me that social values, the economy and gender norms had radically changed, and with them, so too had the answer to the question of whether I wanted to have children one day.
But I wasn’t sad about departing from this imagined future. I’d never been the sort of girl that made Pinterest boards of her future wedding day, or had kids’ names saved in a reserve for the right moment, or had bookmarked pictures of houses to replicate.
In a way, I was actually kind of relieved. It seemed that the older I got, the more there was to discover about myself. It felt like the freer I became from the societal structures that I thought would define my life — suburbia, monogamy, corporate capitalism — the more opportunity lay in front of me. It didn’t feel like there would be time for kids. Maybe marriage, if I met someone magical, because who doesn’t love a love party? But only if it felt right. And judging by everyone I’d dated up until that point it wasn’t something I needed to think about.
Until now.
Recently, I fell in love for real. I fell for a mature, respectful, kind, creative, inspiring man. A man who has already been married once. A man who already has a daughter.
“In a way, I was actually kind of relieved. It seemed that the older I got, the more there was to discover about myself. It felt like the freer I became from the societal structures that I thought would define my life — suburbia, monogamy, corporate capitalism — the more opportunity lay in front of me.”
“She’s not mine,” I find myself constantly explaining, as women wistfully look on at cafes as we colour in, or at three-year-old birthday parties as she drags me from the cubby house to the cake table. Their brows furrow with confusion and I feel compelled to explain my situation, at which their face softens with sympathy. “Don’t worry,” they say, “it will be your turn next.”
I don’t know how to tell them — as they dab at food stains, wipe snot from their childrens’ noses and bark warnings at three second intervals — that I don’t want ‘a turn’. Being around my partner's daughter has made me even more sure of what I decided back then: that while I’m “such a natural” and while I love having a little girl around me — I don’t want one of my own.
It’s a difficult thing to explain to other women. Even in an era of modern feminism, I often find myself in environments where my choice to remain childless estranges me. In those spaces, women who choose to be mothers are embraced by a world that centres their child-rearing responsibilities. I sense a defensiveness from these women, sometimes, when they learn that my priorities lie within my work, writing, art and not motherhood.
In her opinion, Marina Abramović says that “children are the reason why women aren’t as successful as men in the art world.” There are plenty of talented women, she says. “Why do men take over important positions? It’s simple. Love, family, children — a woman doesn’t want to sacrifice all of that.”
I feel a sense of kinship with her decision to remain childless to focus on her art. Throughout her career, Abramović has openly spoken about the “sacrifice” it takes to do something to its full capacity — whether it be motherhood or being an artist, that you can only be dedicated to one thing at a time. I feel the same way.
I’m choosing myself over motherhood, and that feels like a difficult thing to admit. I think that our society hasn’t quite moved on from the expectation that women will prioritise motherhood over personal ambition. Although we’re living through a time that is seeing radical change in some areas of female autonomy, especially when it comes to sexual pleasure — taking ownership of our bodies and making choices that don’t prioritise the male gaze — we’re still constricted by a largely patriarchal structure in society and (especially) in politics.
“I’m choosing myself over motherhood, and that feels like a difficult thing to admit. I think that our society hasn’t quite moved on from the expectation that women will prioritise motherhood over personal ambition”
“Her body is not her own: it is the prey of a species, of society; it is often the plaything of men,” wrote de Beauvoir, on how women’s bodies are seen primarily in terms of reproduction, rather than as their own. Although she made this poignant point way back in ‘49, we’re still living in a world where pregnancy will “fix” your endometriosis and freezing your eggs is recommended by friends, doctors and sponsored ads as you hit your late 20s.
I’d love to live in a world where the fabric of being a woman is realistically layered. Where our choices aren’t fuelled by our gendered destinies and we’re able to define — and redefine — what it means to be a woman for ourselves.
Even still, I feel the pang of love in my gut when my partner’s daughter tells me that she “loves my pretty dress” or asks if we can “please play dollhouse” or bake “a chocolate cake with berries on top”. Being a part of her life has been a beautiful experience: I’ve reconnected with maternal instincts, the joy of childlike imagination and games I forgot I played with my little sister almost twenty years ago. But even still, I don’t feel the desire to go through a pregnancy or motherhood journey of my own. For me, this connection, with a child that isn’t mine, is enough.