Reframing Motherhood

If you are here, welcome! This is the translation of my essay Redéfinir la maternité, written for my newsletter, is this even real?. Enjoy the ride and let me know what you think!

When I was a store assistant, a coworker told me, while looking at a mother overrun by her children, that a woman had two options...

"Either you forget yourself completely and just become a mother, or you remain a woman..."

This was clear to her. This particular woman was no longer a woman, metaphorically speaking. She had merged wholly into her role as a mother, oblivious to her fundamental independence from her children.

I vividly remember that at that specific moment (I must have been 20), the idea of motherhood, which seemed distant but not impossible, repulsed me.

I remembered this when I read Faire la romance, Sarah-Maude Beauchesne's most recent book. I wanted to discuss this moment and how it relates to her latest work. I really liked the story; I liked how it was told and what it conveyed. The warmth of her writing in this essay struck a chord in me. It was a superb read. By the time I'd finished, I put the book on my sofa and allowed myself to be haunted by the story.

On my walk with my partner, I spoke to him about what I'd read.

"I just finished a book. I really liked it... but something's been bothering me."

Amid the whole narrative's sheer beauty, I found myself asking questions. Some moments seemed peculiar. I wondered if they seemed a little unusual to me because I longed to have a child.

My ovaries are in knots, and I have a growing urge to have a tiny little creature crawling around the house other than Persephone, my cat. We haven't even gotten to the trying stage yet, but I can feel it coming.

And that terrifies me.

In her book, Sarah-Maude Beauchesne relates her decision not to have children to her career as an author. I quote.

[...] above all, I have the strong conviction that I won't be able to live a life of writing if I decide to be a mother. The two go so poorly together; their symbiosis and even coexistence seem impossible to me. Writing means allowing myself to be entirely selfish to understand myself from every angle, to be ensconced comfortably in complete solitude, inhabited and immersed even by this quest for self-love. [...] If I were a mother, I'd make it my priority, and this love would only shadow the very thing that defines me.

This poignant quote hit me with a hard blow. The question of motherhood haunts me in practicing my craft and identity as an author and a woman writer. Would a child prevent me from becoming the best writer I could be? Would a child prevent me from being as fulfilled as I can be in my artistic expression and sense of self?

After losing a part of my twenties to a violence-ridden co-dependent relationship, I'm terrified of the co-dependence that will be formed between me and my children. As I dream of snuggly naps and unconditional love, I'm terrorized by the crying, by the figurative and literal umbilical cord that will forever bind me to this being that has crawled out of my womb but who doesn't quite belong to me. A person I must devote myself to entirely and utterly, even though my freedom is what's most precious to me.

Have I idealized motherhood excessively? Is raising a child not the right choice? Is it selfish of me to think of myself? Or is it misleading to equate motherhood with the impossibility of a writing career?

Louise Glück, poet and Nobel Prize winner, has a child.

Annie Ernaux, author and Nobel Prize winner, has two children.

Maggie Nelson, the prize-winning author, has two children.

In a more local example, award-winning Montréal writer Heather O'Neill has a daughter, Arizona, whom she celebrates openly on her social media accounts.

What if the issue with Sarah-Maude Beauchesne's story is the ultimate rationale? Do we need to explain, as women, whether we want children or not?

Sheila Heti, in her book Motherhood, takes up the question of being an artist and having a child. Once again, this artistic calling trumps the desire for motherhood. But in an interview with The Guardian, she explains.

The reason she didn't have children, Heti says, is because she didn't want to, and that's all that needs saying. "But you have to have reasons," she adds wryly.

When I first decided I wanted to be a mother, I was lying on my bed in a pandemic. I had no partner, just my entourage of friends and relatives. I wanted to have a child because I wanted to, regardless of who I was at that moment. This was enough for me to text my friend Adam and ask him if he would be the proud biological father by artificial insemination of my kid if I couldn't find anyone by the time I was 36. The answer came quickly.

"WTF Yara?! This is not the kind of question you ask by text."

But at that precise moment, it seemed like an easy question to ask. I didn't need the "right" person. The "right person" was a multitude of different people. I was my own right person and could have a child with someone I platonically loved and thought would make an excellent father.

Today, with my partner, the question of having a child is more natural. It's a question of when rather than if. It is also a question of values and lifestyle that go hand in hand with how we want to raise a child. Say, if he didn't want us to bring our toddler to a festival wearing noise-cancelling headphones, I probably would have quickly turned around. However, my partner's willingness to help and support me in this adventure gives me confidence in wanting to have a child alongside him as a co-parent, biological father, and dad. His rejection of conventional societal expectations of fatherhood encouraged me to proceed with the decision. I've always wanted to have children independently, but now I know I have the best person to do it with, no matter what life has in store.

Because, in the end, motherhood is one of the many roles I'll have to play in my life. And perhaps this is where Sarah-Maude Beauchesne's story missed its mark, as far as I'm concerned. Our maternal state, whether with or without children, shouldn't be defining who we are. It doesn't represent men. So why should we still have to identify with it and defend it?

Because before being a mother, I am, and will always be, Yara. An intelligent, funny, passionate, feminist millennial woman. A shy writer who never stops writing. A devoted lover. A faithful friend who will always stand up for those she loves. An empathetic listener. A clumsy and forgetful person. An annoying sister. A proud daughter. A beautiful woman.

And finally, someday, a mother. Most probably a rather tactless, busy, but caring mother. A role among many others. A role that completes the ribambelle of other roles that fill my life. A role that requires no reason other than the following; "Because this is what I want."