If you have eaten an uninterrupted meal in the last month, it is unlikely but not impossible that you are a mom.
If you have ever prepared fresh, delicious, nutritious dinner from scratch (involving recipe reading, shredding many a vegetable, and even pan frying in small batches on 80+ degree day because why not?), while caring for child (i.e. singing, doing the most humiliating dances*, pausing to let child suck on your breast with almost frightening fervor), you might be a mom.
If you have ever said “go ahead, you eat” to your partner while you breastfeed squirming, fighting, increasingly yelling baby, only to get up to help with bedtime (even though your partner is completely capable of doing it alone) when it’s your turn to eat, you are probably a mom.
If you have ever returned to your food to find the dog eating it, scolded the dog without making a sound (because no one better mess up bedtime) so ferociously that they run to their bed and stay there until morning, then head to the kitchen to eat leftovers out of the pan with your fingers while cleaning the entire kitchen (again, silently), you are definitely a mom. No one but a mom would put themselves in this position, and no one but a mom would ever let it happen again (let’s be real — it’s gonna). It is the hardest, funniest, most thankless, most delightful job ever. Now excuse me — I typed this holding my baby and I need to wipe about a quarter cup of saliva off of my forearm.
*If you have ever sung and danced to the entirety of Lemonade while simultaneously praising self for getting a workout and pondering long term effects on child (e.g. imagining infant son first as toddler chanting “I slay / all day” to confusion of peers, then as teenage boy inexplicably unnerved by phrase “don’t hurt yourself“) you are a mom, no question. Calm down.