Motherhood is a funny little concept, isn’t it? Yes, it is. In theory, it has a simple definition that’s easy to understand, but in practice, well, some may feel confined. 

Asking any person reading this, or anyone in your life, how they define motherhood, how they feel about their mother, how they identify with motherhood, will grant you complex and various results. Even between siblings born of the same womb, or raised by the same mother, their individual relations and ideologies surrounding motherhood can be entirely opposing. Further, plenty of people are raised without mothers or with multiple mothers; here, too, motherhood can mean something completely different. 

Along this spectrum, I once again find myself in a multiplicitous standpoint. 

I was born from the womb of Tammy Darnell Gonzales-Katsbulas, on October 23rd, 2000. Conceived somewhere around Valentine’s Day of that year, my mom would graduate from the University of Kansas while I developed from a unicellular embryo into a fetus inside of her. She received her Bachelor’s Degree in Social Work with aspirations to serve underprivileged children in her hometown community. Although I could not imagine having a 7-month old infant and a 6-year old daughter at the time of writing this, my mom was prepared – or so she thought. 

With my writing so contingent on recognizing one’s context, I find it vital to do so for my mothers as well.

You see, I was the first planned pregnancy in my immediate family. Serena, my older sister, was born six years before me, on August 26th 1994. At the time, my mom was sixteen, missing the first few days of her senior year as she welcomed Serena into the world. Though Serena was unplanned, she was certainly not unwanted. My mom is sincere when she says that she never once thought about putting Serena up for adoption, much less aborting her. As the youngest child, my mom was met with welcomed help from my Nanny and Tata as she continued high school and continued working to support herself and her family. Of course, that’s not to imply that Nanny and Tata were thrilled with her teenage pregnancy; They were not. In any case, my mom would overextend herself as a means of providing, and, in doing so, her motherly production began to fall short. 

Teenage pregnancy is such a nuanced and complex situation – and is obviously, not a standpoint I occupy. Through various perspectives of first- and second-hand experience, meta-analysis, and my own experience, I have come to understand the following as relevant to my own mother: Teenage pregnancy will affect individuals differently; Teenage pregnancy can be traumatic; Teenage pregnancy can lead to stunted self-development. Understandably, teenage pregnancy can certainly have an impact on how well an individual is able to mother. 

Here, I would like to clarify that I do not expect my mom to be perfect. I do not expect any mother to be perfect. In fact, I think it would be wholly unfair and wrong to expect any mother, any parent, any guiding figure, to be perfect. All mothers will make mistakes, but what’s important is that when mistakes are made, mothers take action towards correction and reparation. Doing so exemplifies the normalcy of imperfection and emphasizes healthy growth. Being a mother is a title that can be applied across an incredible range of contexts, but the expectation widely remains the same: a mother should love their children, support them, and prepare them for their existence as an individual. 

While I do not expect my mom to be perfect, she has proven that she is consistently incapable of correction, reparation, love, support, and preparation. So, instead of focusing on the failures of my mom or the sparing handful of mothering successes she does have, I’d like to discuss my mothers who didn’t fail me. My mothers who, still, are imperfect, but my mothers who do correct; my mothers who do repair; my mothers who do love; my mothers who do support; my mothers who do prepare. 

Like I said, my standpoint is multiplicitous when it comes to motherhood: I have no mother, I have multiple mothers, I have an adoptive mother, and I have a queer mother. 

Serena

As I’ve shared already in Sister, Sister – Chapter One, Serena was my mother where my mom was not. Whether by watching me when my mom wasn’t home, sharing her interests with me, or instilling an ethic of care, Serena raised me. She calmed me when I was scared, offered advice when I needed guidance, and created light when situations were dark. In multiple stories thus far, I’ve mentioned how we hated each other growing up. And while that’s true, we had fun together too: playing mermaids in the pool – effectively, consensual drowning; running lines for her shows; singing Cannibal by Kesha or Mean by Taylor Swift on our way to basketball practice; throwing away our cans of tuna to spite the casserole on Fridays during lent. We shared pain in the way our parents treated us, and a few times, she stopped my mom from hitting me with the belt. We laughed at each other and made the other cry, but regardless of the situation, Serena’s motherly love would never die. 

As we’ve matured, this all remains true. Only more now, she’s a supporter – someone I could always call. I’ve known since I came out that she would truly, never waiver. Unconditional, inquisitive, and interested, she is my sister and my mother. As I am multiplicitous, that, she is too. 

Serena’s context as a mother is not just my own. My younger siblings share it too. More so than us, Serena’s children now face their mother’s point-of-view. In the wake of a failed mother, failed grandmother, and failed aunts, it was safe to assume Serena could fail too. But she had so much experience – mothering me since she was just six. Like our mom, but a few years her elder, Serena had a teenage pregnancy too. Similarly, she also continued her college education, continued working, and was offered childcare from our parents and her future husband’s. With the addition of our shared trauma of an abusive and narcissistic mother, all pieces were falling into place for Serena to share our mom’s every move. Yet, Serena was determined to grow. 

I was there when her first son was born, and was lucky to share my home with him for the first few months of their family’s new life. Serena and her son lived with us, paying some bills but saving more than she would if she left to live with her future husband, Mark. As Serena mothered her firstborn son there was certainly a shift. Her ideology as a mother did not align with our’s own. Though many facets of this time in our lives may have been hidden from me, the first step I saw Serena take towards her growth as a person and in her attempt to be an effective mother, was when she left with her son, and moved in with Mark. In my own opinion, her son’s life is forever bettered by that action. 

A few years later, in 2019, Serena would birth her second son. Shortly after birth, he was diagnosed with a very progressive case of Biliary Atresia and given a few months to live without transplant. Most often, this is a mother’s worst fear. Serena would not let fear control her, if she did, she could lose her son’s life. During one of the most traumatic experiences that could happen to both a mother and an infant, Serena’s motherhood never faltered. Of course, there were moments of unknowns, what ifs, and ‘Can I do this?’ But she mothered superiorly, not just to one, but both of her kids. Her son had a successful transplant within days, perhaps even hours, of his liver completely failing. 

While she is a superior mother, Serena isn’t without fail; she certainly still makes mistakes. When they happen she attempts to learn, to grow, and to progress. She is imperfect and the ideal mother – hopefully now, real motherhood is starting to make sense. 

Savage Mom – Kathryn 

Kat is who I call my adoptive mother, or in other words, my mother. She has two beautiful children of her own: one of my best friends, Peyton, and our younger sister, Eden. Peyton is only four days younger than I am – always destined to become friends. I met Peyton in 7th grade, and became friends with her the following year when we co-starred as Sharpay and Ryan in High School Musical Junior. That production would spawn our friend group that still talks daily: Chicken Babies. Made up of myself, Peyton, Morgan, Nikky, Sam, and Amy – Chicken Babies would become the main theatre friend group of our grade. Talking constantly across different classes, extracurriculars, social platforms, our bond became cemented. 

Two homes became the main hubs for our gatherings: Nikky’s and Peyton’s. At Nikky’s house, the group genuinely loved trampoline nights, game nights, one-sie parties, and the fact that their beautiful, tumorous dog, Maggie, would never fail to stink up an entire room. Nikky’s parents were always kind, and I had known them since I was a second grader, yet – to me at least –  Peyton’s house felt like Chicken Babies’ home. 

Part of this is certainly because of Kat – the mom from mean girls couldn’t hold a candle to her. Through offering her home late into the night for boisterous, theatrical developing-teenagers and showing her genuine interest in the happenings in each of our lives, Kat quickly became the group mom – again, in my own opinion (sorry to the other chicken moms [hens] reading, you know we love you all!). And, in the fashion of Mean Girls’ title of ‘cool mom’, Kat took on the title of Savage Mom. I don’t quite remember the story that prompted this title, but I do know it would not be one that is appropriate for this audience. 

The name Savage Mom is based on Kat’s outspokenness, her willingness to share and defend her opinion, her bluntness, and her ability to to learn and grow from the times where her savagery takes a step too far. This, of course, is where she’s imperfect; Her words can often get the worst of her. Still, with god and grace, she chooses to correct and to repair.

Savage Mom loves to host. Her home is neatly tidied with seasonal decor, discreetly welcoming with clean and warm scents. She’ll greet you with a ‘Hi! How are you?! It’s so wonderful to see you!” and before you can respond, you’re offered a variety of drinks, snacks, and a plethora of places to sit. She incubated each of us Chicken Babies as if she laid us herself; A carton of eggs not sold at the store but instead delicately placed within her nest. We each went off to college, and I don’t think we’ve all been there at the same time since. 

When I decided to not spend holidays with my family, Peyton would offer I come to hers. From the first holiday we spent together to Mother’s Day just this year, it was clear Savage Mom was not just the group mom, but my adoptive mother – and holy shit, she is the best. 

Again, granted with luck, Savage Mom was quite experienced. She adopted her second daughter, Eden, the second she was old enough and able. Adoption provided Kat with a standpoint that I think is rarely shared. Through adoption, Eden’s life was changed forever, and their family lives altered as well. Kat, and her immediate family, are fierce advocates for adoption. They are empowered and impassioned by the fact that adoption does not provide a family with ‘an adopted child’, but provides the family with ‘another child’; Adoption is much more a qualifier towards motherhood than it is a disqualifier. So, when Savage Mom pseudo-adopted me, I was finally given my real mother. 

Alyx Larson

My queer mother, Alyx Larson, has somehow evaded all mention in this book thus far… Or so you thought. Alyx, though not mentioned by name or by alias, has been mentioned via description in a few different pieces. Of course, that is not the story I am here to tell – not in this chapter anyway. 

As I’ve mentioned previously, being queer allows for a total bending of rules and a complete restructuring of social understandings. Commonly, us queers are faced with disapproval and oppressions at the hands of the family we were born unto. As a means of survival, queers have found their own way forward by means of what is commonly referred to as: Chosen Family. 

I want to make this absolutely clear: chosen as a descriptor of family does not determine its credibility, its validity, or its legitimacy. Chosen families can, and often do, include blood-, marital-, and adoptive-relatives. Chosen families, simply, aren’t as limited. They can include friends, peers, co-workers, mentors, teachers and anyone we please. Members of one’s chosen family can, and often do, wholly take the place of what is socially-assumed to be an individual’s family. 

Alyx, who is my best friend, an intelligent peer, co-conspirator, and previous hookup, is also my mentor. Her experience and knowledge of queerness, especially within our lived-communities, guides me in a way that one would expect of a mother. If you’ve read my capstone – now available as the epilogue to this book – then you know that I am very comfortable with calling Alyx my queer mother. And like I am with my other mothers, I feel so lucky that I have a mother in all the contexts I need them. Especially as I came to understand my queerness, Alyx was a sounding board for my questions and curiosities. She teaches, cares, and provides as if she has been a mother for her entire life. 

In queering our lives – remember, bending rules and restructuring understanding – Alyx and I allow ourselves to reverse our roles. Though I may not consider myself her mother, I do find myself giving advice, caring, providing, and loving in the same ways that she does. Whether deep and life-changing or irrelevant and unimportant, we are there for each other like mother and child are meant to be. We talk constantly; Texts, snaps, voice memos, and shares. If I called in the dead of night, or should she do the same, within a ring the phone would be answered. We are inextricably bound by chain. 

Alyx, like all mothers, is obviously imperfect. She makes mistakes both small and large, but never fails to thrive through growth. Of her own volition, or by collaboration with others, she is able and she is willing to learn and change the pattern. Alyx, too, is a queer; which means we also share some deviance. We are similar, we are different; love and passion, greed, lust, guilt and hate; we are related, all the same. A queer mother and her child, we’ll let you distinguish which is which. 

I met her in seventh grade, and our friendship grew quite complex. Far too long, and not always motherly, I’ll send that love letter another day. 

–

The title of mother has various meanings across a multitude of contexts. Yet, still, the title of mother is something my mom will never hold. 
Born into the house of Gonzales and Katsbulas, I am from the house of Fellers, I am from the house of White, and I am from the house of Larson.