For the past year, my husband David has been on parental leave with our second baby. We live in Canada, and he took the full 61 weeks available to him. When our first child was born in 2017, David returned to work the next day (we were foster parents).

Over the past year, I’ve had three books come out, so David has been the primary caregiver for both of our kids. This division of household labor has reinforced a longstanding insecurity I have as a disabled mother: that I’m not seen as a real parent. That it is almost more believable that I’d be an author than a mother.

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Don’t get me wrong—I love my work and feel extremely thankful for it. But as a disabled woman, my own needy body and dependence on care renders me invisible in the stereotypical portrait of the all-giving and endlessly capable mother. It seems likely, though, that even the mothers who fit that image are crushed by the expectations.

When our first child was a newborn, I joined a support group for new moms in Oakland, where we lived. There were about a dozen of us who met on Wednesdays, all with babies on our laps. A common refrain from the rest of the group was a shared angst about changing identities. They wanted to make sure they didn’t become “only moms.” This concern was rooted in both how the world saw them and also how they saw themselves—a worry that their other interests, accomplishments, and feelings might be subsumed by their babies.

Their feelings are valid. But while I tried to relate, I was thrilled by the idea that someone would think of me as a mom, even if it crowded out all the other parts of me. Eight years later, that desire hasn’t abated. I find myself trying to prove that I’m a mother. Instead of distancing myself from my kids in professional contexts, I shoehorn them into conversations—mentioning their sleep, illnesses, and milestones. I feel a sense of pride when I’m booking doctor’s visits or scheduling calls with teachers. Being a mom feels like a........

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