The thought of being a mother is unfathomable. Not because I think that it’s impossible (obviously), but because it’s light years away from who I understand myself to be and who I am prepared to become. I have friends who are mothers. They are different. A friend who is a mother is not just a friend. She is a mother also. It makes a difference. I’m twenty-nine, and this year for the first time I am sometimes asked if I’m a mother, or a wife. My skin starts crawling. For my own reasons, I am agitated by conventional behavior. The spectacle of the family unit seems unnatural, yet, remains undoubtedly the reigning organizational system. We idolize the mother, the matron of life and parent-extraordinaire. As a child I used to stare at round pregnant bellies in awe, and replay stories of my own birth in my head. Socially, there is an invisible space created for the mother, the vestal woman, the reverent father, the fetishized child. It’s conceptual. To become a mother, is to transcend.