New moms get bombarded with parenting advice, both from “experts” in the field and from other mommies. Many new mothers are stepping off the corporate ladder or out of competitive fields, and their ambitious natures are often channeled into their new endeavor: becoming a Good Mommy. Unfortunately, in our culture, people tend to measure the degree to which one is a Good Mommy based on how completely the mother in question has subjugated herself to her children. Tending to the needs of your children is laudable, but becoming a slave to them at the expense of your self, your marriage, and ultimately, their own well-being, is not.
Please don’t misunderstand and think I’m criticizing stay-at-home mothers who have given up their careers. I’m not. In fact, I am a stay-at-home mother, and have given up my career. To be perfectly honest, were it not for my extended bed rest, having twins, the twins’ serious acid reflux, plus postpartum depression, I may well have taken my Type A self down the road to Good Mommyhood. Instead, our early struggles meant that from the start, I was behind on all the things that Good Mommies are supposed to do. The twins’ room was minimally decorated, and certainly never touched by a professional designer. I didn’t take cute baby outfits to the hospital for them to wear in the nursery. From the very beginning they drank formula as well as breast milk. Despite all the encouragement to have them “room in” during my hospital stay, we chose to send the babies to the nursery at night so we could get some sleep. We didn’t invite everyone we knew to the hospital to see the newborns. I was hardly the picture of glowing maternal peace and joy. Rather, I was vomiting every five minutes and trying to recover from an ileus (a truly heinous postoperative complication. Trust me, you don’t want to know). I didn’t pick out elaborate smocked duds for them to wear on the short trip home, either. Being wheeled out of the hospital, I felt my subconscious hiss for the first time, “Bad mommy.”
The first time my kids sat for a professional photographer, they were over a year old. Almost everyone else I know did professional portraits of their newborns, then more portraits every three months. I didn’t come up for air from the three hour long pump-feed-change-clean pump-sleep-get up again cycle for about three months, and then I thought about photography for all of thirty seconds before dismissing the idea. My kids’ reflux was so bad that even with medication, they were constantly spewing. Not just a little spit-up, mind you, but Poltergeist-style projectile vomiting. One memorable day my daughter went through nine onesies. Before lunch. So a trip to a photographer would have required about a dozen photo-worthy outfits for each child, plus either raincoats or multiple outfits for both mommy and daddy.
I decided we could live with snapshots, but I envy the gorgeous artistic shots gracing most of my friends’ walls. Even now, we have some great pictures, but I never seem to find the time to frame and display them. My inner self clucks at me whenever we see friends’ photos. “Bad mother,” she says.
When the twins’ first birthday rolled around, we didn’t throw a party. I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around invitations and decorations and favors and entertainment. It was all I could do to get dressed and not cry. We invited about five friends over for champagne and cake, and all I could think was, “Wow, we did it. We kept them alive for an entire year!” Naturally, when they were massacring their cake, I burst into tears. It was a short party.
Postpartum depression changed my parenting philosophy in a hurry. Before the twins were born, I envisioned an idyllic “what to expect” world in which they played educational games instead of watching television. But reality crashed that party in the form of infants that cried and cried and cried and could be calmed only via Baby Einstein DVDs. Clifford the Big Red Dog and Dragon Tales provided my only opportunities to shower. So, television it was. Cartoons seemed a decent price to pay for a clean, sane-ish mommy. Believe it or not, television actually has some redeeming qualities. Both of my kids learned about hibernation from Curious George, and they learned the alphabet from a combination of Super Why and foam letters that stick to the tile around the bathtub. But that still didn’t stop the inner voice from berating me, “Bad mommy,” it said.
There were also days when the crying and the diapers and the spit-up and life in general got to be so much that I couldn’t take it. Thankfully, when that happened, I was strong enough to put the babies in their cribs and leave the room. Several times I ended up sitting on the front porch with the dog, baby monitor in hand but turned down low so the flashing lights would alert me if the kids were screaming. I would never intentionally hurt my children, but experiencing postpartum depression showed me how easily it could happen, especially if an affected new mother didn’t seek the appropriate help. Let me tell you, when I was sitting on that front porch because I simply had to get away from my children, my inner voice shrieked her disapproval. “Horrible mother! What do you mean, you need to step away from the children!”
Never did I think I would look upon postpartum depression as a gift, but lately I do. It shook a lot of the Type A-ness out of me in my early parenting days, and I’m a better parent and wife for it. It’s counterintuitive, but with parenting, sometimes less is more, and feeling bad means you’re doing good. As I write this, I’m listening to my son cry in his room. Not because I’m a masochist and get my kicks from tormenting small children, but because he broke several rules and I sent him to his room. Even now, there’s a small voice inside, quieted to a whisper, “Bad mommy. Be nice and let him come play.”
But if I gave in, if I decided to be nice and let him come play, he would learn nothing. He might be happier this afternoon, but that does not a good mother make.
I watch other mothers swab every available surface their tots might touch with Clorox wipes, and I remember the many times I found the twins eating spider webs on the floor by our bay window. At various times they also ate rug lint, crayons, pieces of the foam cushion on the bottom of the dog crate, stuffing from a couch pillow, yard debris tracked in by the dog, dryer lint, one copy of “The Velveteen Rabbit,” and two copies of “Goodnight Moon.” My son drank stagnant water from a bird bath using half a plastic Easter egg during an egg hunt, and on one memorable day, tried to eat a used rectal thermometer probe cover. The recent articles about dirt consumption promoting a healthy immune system in children quieted my self-deprecating voice, just a bit. Enough that it can concede that perhaps this explains why my children don’t suffer from allergies.
The gift postpartum depression has given me has taken a while to see, and even longer to be able to articulate. In a nutshell, it’s this: I’ve learned that the Good Mommy my children need is a happy, healthy mother in a healthy marriage, and for that to happen, the children cannot be the center of my life. My health, and my relationships with God and my husband must be in harmony and must take priority. (See, doesn’t that make you want to instinctually yell, “Bad mommy! Putting yourself before your children, what are you thinking?”) The kids do not need to be micromanaged, and they are happier when they are well disciplined and well behaved, no matter how un-fun discipline may be, and no matter how much I don’t enjoy it.
My children are cherished and adored. They want hugs and kisses every day, and they want to pray every night. Things aren’t perfect, and most days I am not at all sure of what I’m doing or how it will turn out. Twenty years from now, my kids won’t have professional baby portraits of themselves at 3, 6, and 9 months, but I hope and pray that if you ask them, they will tell you that I was, in fact, a good mommy.
So if you see my subconscious wandering around, please tell her to shut up, already.
We don't have pro pics either. And were your children the center of your world, you'd set them up to be horrible spouses and disapointed that they aren't the center of anyone elses. What a blessing that as Lent winds down, you can see that God used adversity to make you look more like Him. And He's the best parent around…so take heart, dear friend.
I do not have any professional photos of myself as a child, and would not even want them, and my mommy, well she is the best in town. I am certain your children will say exactly the same (not from ages 13 to 17 though). Gorgeous writing, Angie.
– meghann
These are extremely important ideas. I believe that our culture has it wrong about children always coming first. Parents should demonstrate through the way that we live our lives how to be whole, healthy people. I agree with Elizabeth's comment that teaching children that they are the center of the world only sets them up for disappointment later when others don't agree with their view of themselves. I also don't do the Clorox wipes. Jay eats dirt, sometimes gets dirty pacies, and has eaten any number of allegedy inedible things. He's fine.
As a Type A who has also struggled with depression I have had to learn to dial myself back. Sometimes I'm less successful than other tmes. It's the damnable misery of being human. Just know that there are other As Good as We can Be mommies out there doing it your way.
Oh, and as for marriage. I think the #1 thing we can do for our kids is have a strong marriage. It gives them a secure place from which to experience the world.
Keep on doing it your way, sister.
@EJ, it's amazing what God can do with adversity, isn't it? I'm trying to keep that in mind today during Good Friday. Through suffering we find grace.
@meghann, thank you for the kind words. You made me realize that I don't have any pro pics of myself as a child, either. We did take some, but they're all at my mom's house. I wouldn't know what to do with them here!
@Amy, it is always nice to know there are other As Good As We Can Be mommies. It's also great to know others agree that centering your life around your children isn't the healthiest way to go about things, because our culture as a whole sure gives the opposite message. I thought the NYT article you posted today was especially interesting in this context, where it talks about obsession abhorring a vacuum, and how obsession with pie crust has been replaced with obsession with children for the average American mom.
Angie I hope one day, when I'm a Mom, I'm as cool, down to earth, and REAL as you are. Pressures now days to be the “Perfect Mom”, “Perfect Bride”, “Perfect Wife”, “Perfect Girlfriend”…I don't think our parents had this type of pressure. Thank you for calling out the BS.
Even though I don't know you,you and your words are a gift to me as I battle through postpartum…I LOVE everything you wrote, but my favorite thing you had to say was “feeling bad means your doing good”. That really struck a chord with me…in fact I think it will become my new mantra:)
@Caroline, thanks for the compliment. And as for our parents, I think they may have had some of this pressure, but they didn't talk about it. I'm thinking about “Mad Men” as my example (even though I realize our parents were a different era). But I look at January Jones' character and I feel that women like that were under just as much pressure, but completely without an outlet to speak about it. Of course, we have an additional very public layer of pressure from the glossies: Cosmo calls us to be raving sex kittens slash models; Good Housekeeping demands that we be a Rachel Ray/Martha Stewart hybrid; Time demands we break glass ceilings; Parents would have us spend every waking moment in arts & crafts mode. And then we have the celebs who make it look so easy, and we think if they can do it all, we should be able to manage! And we probably could, if we each had four nannies, a chef, personal trainer, driver, etc. Piece of cake.
@Allie, I’m so glad to be of some comfort. It will be hard for a while, but you will get through it, and you’ll be stronger for it.
Next time you hear “bad mommy” hissing in the background – call me, we'll drink some wine (and whine)and send her packing. She's always with me, and Alan and I have gotten to a place where we can joke about her, but the guilt's no joke. And I am surprised where the guilt comes from sometimes (like other moms who want the world think they've got it all figured out). We're moms, plain and simple.
Angie – you are a wonderful writer! I can tell you that my twins shook my Type A self to the core. Never would I have thought that I would not flinch at my infant consuming dog food or taking a pacifier that dropped on the floor. I think God gave me twins so that I would relax! And now, I just do the best I can do and hope that's enough. My perfectionist side peeks out more than it should, but one look at H&C's hair most mornings – or in their lunchboxes – and you know that I've given it a rest. It's been so long since I read the book that I can't even remember what I thought of it – but I've totally embraced the idea of the book “I was a really good mom before I had kids.” 😉
you are not good…you are GREAT!
Bravo!! I had numerous “bad mommy” moments this week. It's hard to handle. Hard to feel like you aren't the worst mother to walk the planet. I had postpartum depression after my first and talk about “bad mommy” feelings. All. The. Time. My husband swears I cried every day for the first 6 months. He's probably right. I can remember falling in a heap in her room because I couldn't put a onesie on her without her crying (she was about 6 weeks old). I just fell on the floor crying and saying “Why are all the other moms so much better than me??”. Sad and dark times. Still happens. But I'm learning that I'm not really a bad mommy – I love my girls and do what I always think is best.
And truth be known, we didn't do professional photos or a first birthday party. Took me till my oldest turned 2 before I had a party. 😉