The following entry has been written by this week's special guest, Asha Dornfest.

I’m not a Mother. Mothers are elemental, all-seeing, fierce when necessary. I’m too tired to be fierce.

Am I a Mom? I try not to dress like a mom, I’m not a soccer mom (yet). When people ask me what I do, I never mumble “I’m just a mom” as if it were a menial job or a last resort.

Please don’t call me Mommy. Mommy’s house, children and car are immaculate. Mommy bakes from scratch. Mommy listens actively. Mommy drinks decaf. Mommy is reasonable. I’m definitely not a Mommy.

Mama. What about mama? Like queer, mama has been reclaimed. Mamas are hip. Mamas question authority. Mamas buy wooden toys, publicly dis parenting manuals (but privately read them), wear tattoos, participate in demonstrations, and have lots of fascinating things going on in addition to mamahood. I’d like to think I’m a mama, I’m not sure I cut it.

I spend more time than I care to straightening, organizing and sanitizing, but I’m not a Housewife. I saw a bumper sticker that put it well: “I am not a housewife for the simple reason that I did not marry a house.”

So what am I? I can tell you what I used to be. A long time ago, I was a Kid. Being a Kid turned into being a Student, which I was for many years (for a few of those years, I moonlighted as a Girlfriend). After I graduated and got a job, I was at times a Human Resources Assistant, a Director of Volunteer Programs, and a Web Page Designer. I then left the nine-to-five world and became a Writer. Along the way, I also became a Wife.

After being a Wife for many years, I became pregnant, and eagerly awaited my next title: Mother. I figured it would slide on as comfortably as all the previous titles had. Soon enough my son arrived, and I reveled in the boy’s intensity and beauty. But when people casually asked me how it felt to be a Mother, a part of me shifted around, as if the new title were riding up a little and needed to be tugged back into place.

Mother didn’t fit as well as I had expected.

My previous titles had coexisted peacefully enough, but Mother was having none of that. She barreled through, arms swinging, sending my old titles flying as if they were flimsy cardboard facades. It was Mother or nothing. Even Asha, the title I’d had since I was born, was no match for Mother. For several dark months, Asha fled the scene altogether.

Our battle had left me bruised, but gradually I edged back into the light and managed to elbow a small space next to Mother. I rejoiced in my growing son, but I also mourned the loss of my old titles and the self-worth I’d attached to them. I raged at Mother for obliterating those titles. Later, I tried to reshape myself to fit inside what I believed Mother should be, not unlike dieting to fit into a dress that’s too small.

Finally, exhausted, I surrendered. Mother had won. I let myself be carried away by the endless parade of diaper changes, storytimes, and preschool dropoffs. I resigned myself to a domestic routine that lacked the drama and recognition of my previous jobs, but contained a quiet magic I could only appreciate once I was no longer struggling. After a time, I couldn’t remember why Mother and I had fought so bitterly.

The birth of my second child gave me a chance to revisit Mother. Her grip had loosened. She was no longer the steely, thick-ankled figure I went up against when my son was born; experience had softened her. I detected a generous spark in her steady gaze. I would even describe her as beautiful.

So here I am, finally at peace with being a mother. And yet, I’m still not sure what to call myself. Mother, Mom, Mommy, Mama…none of these titles describes me completely.

Sometimes, I’m a mother, with flashes of ferocity and power and beauty. Often, I’m a mom, dragging myself home with a take-and-bake pizza and a video for the kids. I’ve reveled in being a Mommy, making my kids’ Halloween costumes and occasionally baking flamboyant birthday cakes. I catch glimpses of my intelligent, meet-the-world-head-on inner mama. Through it all, I’m Asha.

It’s late afternoon, and I hear my son’s siren song from the other room. ”Maaaah-meeeee!”

Yeah, that’s me.

Read more from the wonderful Asha Dornfest at her blogs: Ashaland and Parent Hacks