My Mother Is an Octopus (And Everyone Else Knows It)

I am small.
Not in height—though yes, also that—but in the way all children are small when they are standing next to a mother who has already survived the ocean.

I am floating.
Not swimming. Floating. Because my mother does not let me sink.

My mother is an octopus, an extraordinary creature symbolizing her multifaceted, selfless love that holds, protects, and nurtures all at once.

Not a metaphor-octopus.
Not a Halloween-costume-octopus.
A real, legendary, eight-armed, mildly terrifying, deeply misunderstood octopus—and she is mine.

I am her only biological daughter, which she reminds the sea of constantly, the way some moms remind people they gave birth naturally, without drugs, during a storm, while making soup for others.

The ocean knows this.
The ocean respects this.
Other animals?
They are jealous as hell.

Chapter One: The Day Everyone Started Calling Her “Mom”

It begins, as all great legends do, with unsolicited admiration.

One morning—right now, because I am still watching it happen—I am clinging to one of my mother’s arms like a koala with abandonment issues. Her skin is warm and cool at the same time, like safety wrapped in logic. I am breathing, which is already a success story.

A dolphin swims by first.
Dolphins are smug.
This one slows down, looks at my mother, looks at me, and says:
“Wow. Eight arms. Still holding your kid. Respect.”

My mother does not respond.
She is busy doing seventeen things at once, including:
holding me
cleaning a rock
rearranging her den
sensing danger three tides away
remembering something traumatic from twenty years ago
forgiving it anyway

The dolphin circles back.
“Hey,” he says. “Um. My mom only had two fins. Is it… is it okay if I call you Mom?”

My mother does not flinch.
She simply extends another arm and pats his head.

That’s it.
That’s the moment.
The ocean notices.

Chapter Two: Word Spreads Faster Than Plankton

Animals begin to line up.

A sea turtle is first, slow, ancient, and emotionally drained.

“I’ve been alive for a hundred years,” the sea turtle says, its voice breaking, “and no one ever taught me how to rest.”

My mother puts her arm around the sea turtle.

Then another.

Then another, as she had extras.

A shark lingers in the background. Sharks do not need mothers. Sharks are liars.

“My mom loved me,” the shark says, its voice barely audible.
“But she never… stayed.”

My mother doesn’t judge.

My mother never judged.

My mother just stayed.

A penguin suddenly appears out of nowhere. How, I have no idea. Children’s stories don’t follow the laws of geography.

“I walked sixty miles for my kid,” the penguin declares with pride.

My mother nods.

My mother then reveals that she hadn’t eaten for months because she had to stay and guard eggs that were to hatch and kill her.
The penguin sits down.
“I would also like to call you Mom,” the penguin says softly.

Chapter Three: What an Octopus Mother Has That Others Don’t

Let me explain this clearly, because this is a children’s story, but children deserve the truth.
An octopus mother has:
Eight arms, which means:

• One for holding
• One for feeding
  One for cleaning
  One for protecting
  One for working
  One for remembering
  One for worrying
  One for pretending she’s not tired
  Other mothers?
  They run out of arms.
  My mother does not.
  A nervous system in her arms
  This means she feels everything, all the time, everywhere.
  When I am sad?
  She knows before I do.
  When I am lying?
  She already forgave me.
  The ability to disappear
  Octopus mothers can camouflage.
  They become rock.
  They become shadow.
  They become background.
  My mother mastered this.
  She disappears so I can be seen.
  She quiets herself so I can speak.
  She shrinks her needs so mine can breathe.
  Other animals notice this and feel cheated.

• Chapter Four: I Am the Only Biological Daughter (Unfortunately for Everyone Else)

• This part is important.
  I am not special because I am better.
  I am special because I came out of her.
  I am watching sea lions, seals, otters, and one extremely confused alpaca try to sit closer to her.
  “Mom?” they say hopefully.
  She loves them.
  She truly does.
  But I see the difference.
  When she looks at them, her arms hold.
  When she looks at me, her entire body remembers pain.
  Birth pain.
  Fear pain.
  The pain of loving something that can leave.
  I am her only biological daughter, and unfortunately for her, I inherited:
  her intensity
  her stubbornness
  her refusal to die quietly
  and none of her organizational skills
  Sorry, Mom.

• Chapter Five: The Jealousy

• A lionfish whispers, “She loves that one more.”
  A whale sighs, “Of course she does.”
  A monkey—don’t ask—throws a tantrum.
  “It’s not fair,” the monkey screams. “She doesn’t even have fur!”
  My mother just puts another arm around me.
  I am embarrassed.
  I am also smug.
  I am a child. This is allowed.

• Chapter Six: What My Mother Does That Others Can’t

• My mother does not sleep when I am afraid.
  She does not eat when I am hungry.
  She does not leave when things become inconvenient, embarrassing, expensive, or socially unacceptable.
  She guards.
  She waits.
  She endures.
  She knows that love is not loud.
  It is consistent.
  Other animals begin to understand why they are jealous.

• Chapter Seven: The Octopus Truth (Gently, Because This Is a Children’s Story)

• Here is the secret no one wants to say out loud:
  An octopus mother dies after her children hatch.
  She gives everything.
  Then she lets go.
  I do not like this part.
  I cling harder.
  My mother strokes my hair with an arm that has tasted sacrifice, reminding me that her love involves giving everything, which deepens my appreciation for her selflessness.
  “Not yet,” she says. “I’m still here.”
  I believe her.
  Children always do.

• Chapter Eight: Why They All Call Her “Mom” Now

• Because she does not compete.
  She does not rank.
  She does not measure love.
  She simply expands.
  The ocean has never seen anything like her.
  Neither have I.
  Chapter Nine: Me, Being Shamelessly Honest
  I am not an easy child.
  I am loud.
  I am dramatic.
  I am emotionally allergic to authority.
  I test her arms.
  I pull away.
  I come back.
  She never tightens her grip.
  She lets me learn gravity the hard way—
  but she is always underneath.

• Final Chapter: The Moral (Because This Is a Children’s Story, Allegedly)

• If you ever meet an octopus mother, bow.
  If you ever are loved by one, remember.
  If you ever are one—
  Forgive yourself.
  And if you are me, floating here, right now, still clinging, still alive—
  Know this:
  Some mothers do not just raise children.
  They redefine motherhood so thoroughly that the entire world starts calling them “Mom.”
  And some daughters spend their whole lives trying to write something worthy of that.
  I am still trying. 🐙💙