Abigail Wheetley
I have two children. My son Dexter is three, and my daughter Emily was just born in December. Emily is the reason I'm taking a break this summer from school and becoming better acquainted with Oprah. I like to watch it on Tuesdays; as some of you might know, Tuesdays are better known as Dr. Phil days.
One day on Oprah with Dr. Phil, a woman described herself as "just a mom." Oprah's brown eyes grew wide with concern over this woman's low opinion of herself, and Dr. Phil wrinkled the top of his bald head in an effort to try and convince this woman not to sell herself short. "Oh, no," cried Oprah, "being a mom is the most important job in the world." But what Oprah and Dr. Phil don't get, like many people who are not mothers, is that this woman is not saying that being a mom is not important, but that being "just a mom" is all she is.
I am just a mom. I'm not 5 feet and 1 inch tall, a bad dancer or really interested in books about conjoined twins. I am not a junior majoring in English, the daughter of a poet who works at Sears or the owner of a velvet pantsuit. I am not just learning to drive, slightly overweight or a fiercely competitive board game player. I am not a human living person with the occasional need to eat, make love or use the bathroom. I am a mom, just a mom. Ask any waitress that comes to my table.
"What about you, mom? Something for desert maybe?"
Or my day care provider.
"So, mom, make sure that Dexter brings his swimsuit tomorrow."
And my child's doctor.
"Mom, can you hold his head to one side; I'd like to get a look in his ears."
The name 
means that you are the force that keeps your children from harm, you are the thrower of birthday parties, the drier of tears, the builder of forts and the setter upper of play dates. All other life, any other identity, fades into the background.
When I start back to school this year, I will have a name again. I will be Abigail Wheetley, the student; I'll even be able to write it at the top of my papers so that everyone will know it's me. I'll have ideas again, thoughts of my own that are independent of any Sponge Bob episode. I will be able to have conversations where I can finish my sentence and know that I am understood. My clothes will probably still be covered with remnants of baby formula and rice cereal, and the most exciting part of my day will still be when I pick my son up from day care, but at least I'll be able to hold onto my name and my identity until that moment when he looks up from his blocks with wide eyes and screams, "MOM," 'cause that's my name.
Until then, when the telemarketer calls and says "Ms. Wheetley?" I'll say, "Don't be so formal, call me Abby." I'll pull up the blanket and get settled in for a good talk about long distance rates and what their company can do for me.
Published on 11/17/05; 12:24:44 PM
