by Carol Lang
When I was a kid, I didn’t play house. I didn’t play with dolls. I played kick-ball and climbed trees. I chased boys, rode my bike and roller-skated all over the neighborhood.
I was a Girl Scout, but did poorly in all things “traditionally domestic.” My mom gave up after a while.
When I was older, I did babysit. The money was awesome and the time with kids short. I didn’t dislike the kids but mostly I liked staying up late and watching Saturday Night Live.
I went to college, studied math, computers, chemistry. Drank too much but got good grades. I met a boy.
Got a husband, and a career with lots of promise.
Husband said he knew I would want a family some day and he was comfortable, and confident, to wait.
I got pregnant. I cried. Husband celebrated. I pretended I wasn’t pregnant, most of the time.
I really wanted to keep working. I knew that was wrong. I planned a long maternity leave.
I became a mother. I wasn’t prepared. I had absolutely no freaking idea what I was supposed to do with the amazing miracle my body had created. So precious. So fragile. A piece of my heart outside of my body (Elizabeth Stone).
I read. I read a lot. Good mothers are smart mothers, well educated mothers. I spent money — on the “right” toys, “right” foods, “right” products, “right” activities.
All my mother friends seem so confident, so on top of things. Their babies so perfect. Perfectly wonderful, or perfectly horrible. Mine just are. We mothers play a game. It’s competitive, ruthless. I am uncertain of the rules but I play. A game of extremes: best or worst; smartest or dumbest; strongest or weakest. No average. No middle. I compete, fiercely. I only lose.
Along came Baby #2. And, #3.
What am I thinking? There’s no way I can handle all this. What made me think I could serve, protect, love three priceless, precious beings?
Babies are getting bigger, older. Challenges are growing, too. I feel pressure to find solutions. I keep going.
I get promoted. And, promoted again. I am surprised this is happening. I am scared all the time. I wonder a lot about priorities.
I can organize. I can plan. I am over-protective, control-freaked, and obsessive about every detail. Babies are active, and involved in many activities, maybe too many, maybe not enough. I can feel things start to unravel, but I must keep going. I must keep them going. Good foods, family dinners, homework in on time, to bed on time, clean bodies and clean clothes. And, myself, I must smile – stay calm, relaxed. My heart pounds out of my chest. I hope no one will see.
I am faking it. Every day I fail to meet the measure, meet the expectations.
I hate you, mom. You’re a bitch. Leave me alone.
Quiet, shhhh – someone will hear you and I’ll be found out.
My oldest son fails geometry.
My younger son lies, a lot.
My daughter is full of sass, rebellious and recalcitrant. She talks back as if my equal.
The paint is coming off the walls and there are more weeds in the gardens than flowers.
I look over my shoulder. I worry I will be exposed, the imposter mother. I fear for my babies. Am I good enough for them?
What do you think? Tell us your thoughts and read others’, too.
There IS so much performance associated with motherhood. Keeping up the fantasy that we know what we’re doing and that we are completely fulfilled by it. I just want to tear off that facade and scream when I feel like the women and men around me expect me to play that part day in and day out.
Thank you, Carol for your honesty. And thank you Get Born, for existing.
As a fellow Home Ec failure, this piece really resonated with me. Every day I am an actor on a stage and the spotlight just keeps following me. I cannot find the wings in which to hide. Thank you.
I think the game comes from a need to assess ourselves constantly. We all pretty much feel like we’re failing, flailing, floundering endlessly, and so, we need those thoughts, those “At least I don’t do that”, “I’m better at this than she is” thoughts to gain any confidence at all most of the time..But the game beats us when the inevitable “how does she do it”s creep in. Kind of ridiculous really.
What would it look like if we all collectively took off our masks? If we’re all mask-less, we’re all bare and all recognizable to one another, and what’s more, we’re all the same. This was such an honest way to connect with others who feel similarly. Thank you for the authenticity! I would love to challenge all mothers for our children’s sake to collectively take off the masks that were handed down to us. The alternative is to simply pass our masks along to our daughters… and quite frankly, as the 3rd born girl in my family, I never did like hand-me-downs!
Love and Light to the Get Born community!