The first few words of the question were worded innocently enough, but by the time I bit down on the final word, my voice was rising in panic.
The weekend is always a blur of temper tantrums, snack dispensing and ass wiping. And as the chaos is trying its hardest to calm down on Sunday evening at 5:45, a thought hits me while I am cooking the first of three dinners I’ve grown accustomed to cooking: Monday is picture day at my child’s day care.
Letting out a gasp of panic, I quickly turn off the stove, run into the living room to find Jim and blurt random words like “pictures,” “tomorrow,” “no time,” “clothes” and on and on as I dash out the door and into the pouring rain.
With tires trying to get traction on slick streets, I steer the car a block away to a store I know is open for just 15 more minutes. I race inside, drenched, my eyes darting across the racks and shelves looking for something, anything, that coordinates. I instantly see two dresses and let out a small yelp as I realize they are both 50% off. I paw at the articles of clothing, desperately searching for the corresponding sizes and race to the counter just as the manager is trying to lock down the cash register. I help him stuff the dresses into a bag and crumple it tightly under my arm as I hunker down to run out again in the torrential downpour.
At home, chilled and soaked, I dry off with a towel my husband hands me, then I finish preparing the meals. I find myself shaking from the adrenaline and unable to calm my racing heart. I continue cooking while fuming about my forgetfulness.
That night, after the kids are put to bed and the dishes are being swished and swashed within the dishwasher, I explain to Jim—who is far too kind to ask—why the hell I ran out of the house just to get two dresses for picture day at school.
I describe how a week earlier, when I had heard about school pictures, I was excited to get the girls new dresses. London, regrettably—though economically—has been in hand-me-downs her whole life, and Lowery, regrettably—but proudly—tears holes in every pair of pants I buy her. And while accessorizing my children truly brings me joy, I rarely get around to it much anymore.
Unless there are pictures to be had.
The next day, Jim dropped the girls off at school, all pressed and coifed. He texted me later to say it was clear a few other people had forgotten about picture day as well, so I’m in good company.
And after that, my phone was lit with texts from fellow mothers remarking how adorable my children looked, but dammit they had completely forgotten about picture day and oh well, that stained t-shirt and muddy pants will make for a good story when the kids are older.
Even though I felt I had barely squeaked by with an army crawl across the finish line, other mothers were declaring it an all-out victory. And they were forfeiting.
That part of motherhood—that solitary panic and hustle, racing against a clock that doesn’t tick—is the part I really, really don’t like.
I’ve been asked a lot lately if I like being a mom.
This is a fair question, sure. It comes from well meaning, soon-to-be mothers. Or my young students who one day want children. Or, sometimes, my own child when I’m in the middle of fighting with her over bath time.
But there’s something about the question that is problematic. My obvious and immediate response is one of great enthusiasm, for I must not let anyone think, even for a second, that I don’t love being a mother. Because thanks to my generation, we all have to be constantly proving we love our children. For no one will just assume.
The weird part about being a mother is that it is treated very differently from the other roles I play in my life. I have never been asked if I like being a daughter. Or a friend. I’ve actually never even been asked if I like being a wife. But the answer to that question is that it is super contingent on it being in relation to Jim. If he up and left, I doubt “being a wife” would be a priority of mine.
The point is, motherhood is super contingent on the child. I like being Lowery’s mom and I like being London’s mom. But it’s a funny thing to even ask.
About as funny as asking if I like being a human. If I have to stop and think about being a human, then I suddenly feel like I have to compliment humanity and what all it’s done for me. I have to prove to whomever is asking—I assume a Martian—that I do in fact love being a human, so now let me count the ways. These opposable thumbs? I can’t tell you how handy they are.
But motherhood is a role that seems to miraculously float somewhere off in the distance. We put motherhood on a separate plane in time and space and watch it from afar. We make a role to which one aspires. Achieves. Perfects.
Now, when I was ready to have kids but had yet to see a blue line on a stick (and for a while, worried I might never), I wanted to have other mothers tell me how amazing it is. I wanted to hear about the cool club I was desperate to join and how much cooler I would be once I was in.
Only to find out, once you are in, there are a lot of temper tantrums, snack dispensing and ass wiping. And that’s just not the kind of under-the-nails shit you want to unload on a bright-eyed young woman excited for motherhood.
But the thing is, motherhood isn’t all that bad.
It’s just all that glorified.
As young girls we talked about “being mothers” one day. I can’t remember what my general opinion was on having children, but I sure played “house” a lot with my friends. From an early age I saw that motherhood was pretty easy so long as my children were as quiet and well behaved as Cabbage Patch Dolls. And because dolls don’t move or talk or shit (well, they didn’t in my day), it was easy to see motherhood as a monologue, not a dialogue.
Motherhood was something to be done at a child. Near a child. Around a child. Not with a child. And so began the process of seeing motherhood as a role I would conquer. Not as a relationship I would have.
Before I was pregnant I was really excited about a whole host of motherly activities, despite never having any experience with them. One aspect that excited me was the prospect of my children going to school. The thought of going back-to-school shopping for clothes and supplies seemed like something I would not only enjoy, but somehow be extremely skilled in.
But, now that I have a child mere months from starting kindergarten, I’ve come to see that sending my child to school has been mostly just a very stressful and tedious process. Deciding where to send our child to school--touring schools, evaluating schools--was one of the more (unnecessarily) pressure-packed decisions and it drove me to drink. It’s one of the aspects of motherhood I’ve liked the least. On top of that, schools now require uniforms and provide all the school supplies. Nothing is like I imagined it would be.
And yet other aspects of parenting I never even thought about have surfaced as my favorite part of the gig. Namely, conversing. On the occasions my kids are fed, calm and not in need of a new diaper, I find sitting and talking with them to be surprisingly engrossing. But never once while shopping for nursery décor or reading baby name books did I ever think that talking with my kids would bring me such joy. Again, I was assuming they’d sit there motionless, staring blankly at me from under yarn bangs.
And therein lies a weakness in motherhood. We are asked to prepare for emotions we can’t possibly prepare for.
Before the birth of my first daughter, so many people told me how quickly I would fall in love with my child. This was said so much to me I began to panic about my own reaction to the birth of my child. Everyone told me how it should go. How it went for them. But something in the back of my mind kept nagging me. I worried I wouldn’t have the same feelings. At least not instantly. And I made my mind up that if those emotions didn’t surface immediately, I would pretend they did. But when I expressed this to close friends they assured me that the most profound love I would ever feel in my life would happen the instant I laid eyes on my child.
Sure, sure. But giving birth hurts, and it makes you tired, and for a few days you aren’t quite sure if that’s the actual size of your child’s nose.
That’s how motherhood becomes the enemy of love. It comes prepackaged with expectations on the emotions you should feel. When you should feel them. How you should express them. And what it might mean if you don’t.
So why is it that motherhood is so glorified? What it is that is so different, unique or substantial from being a daughter or a wife or a friend? Maybe it’s that we refuse to see motherhood as what it really is: a relationship.
Because if you ask me how my relationship is with my children, that’s a question I’m happy to answer. Somehow, magically, I’ve helped create two little people—one with my face, one with my personality. And my relationships with the two of them are two of the most honest and rewarding relationships of my life.
And while you can debate motherhood, challenge motherhood, write about motherhood (irony fully appreciated), put pressure on motherhood, you can’t debate my relationship with my children. You can’t judge our conversations. Nothing about our love is controversial. We are just a few people sharing a life together. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we hurt each other’s feelings. Sometimes we hug. Sometimes we need space.
Now, I will protect them, teach them, love them and push them to their potential. But those kids, they will teach me, too. Love me, too. And push back.
That’s the definition of a relationship.
So the part of motherhood that I don’t like is that part that exists on a level without my kids. That part where I’m soaked to the bone searching for dresses, without the input of my kids, who truly don’t care (or even know) about picture day.
The part of motherhood I love is that part where my children come home from picture day to tell me all about why their nice new dresses are covered in mud and paint.
So there’s really no need to ask if I like being a mom. Because the answer doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I love my relationship with my children.
And I am a mom.
Whether I like it or not.
Watch the TED Talk!
Buy the Book!
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.