I think I’m just the worst mother, M says to me, while looking down at the shiny folds of her black, designer puffer coat.
You do? I reply. This wasn’t really a question asked in earnest, but an invitation to revisit the statement. Picking at the worn cuticles on her ungloved hands, she continues, undeterred.
Yeah, she says, I do. I just have no patience. I feel like I’m grumpy all the time. And kind of mean. I don’t want to be mean, but I just lose my shit all the time lately.
I let these words sit in the still chilly air inside my car. I imagine them dancing around us, in between us, like unexploded grenades. So much power, so much implication, so much potential for damage.
She clears her throat, a sign of more words to come, but I cut her off before she can begin.
M, I say, placing my free hand on the cold nylon of her left sleeve, I truly think that maybe you should cut yourself some slack here. I know you think it’s easy for me to say that because I’m not a parent, but I’m a human. And I’ve been around a while now, and I’ve seen shitty mothers, and you aren’t one of them.
Erm, she starts to protest.
No, I say, a little more firmly than I intend, you aren’t. I won’t be told otherwise. I’m sure you get super pissed off and yell and feel insane, and you still aren’t a bad mom. I think you need to give yourself grace. You work full time, you have two busy teenagers, you have a house to take care of, and in your less than ample free time, you try to take care of your perimenopausal body.
She laughs at this description. I think it’s a laugh. Perhaps it’s a laugh stifling a sob.
I know you are tired, I continue, and you feel like you’re failing, but I think you’re tired because you aren’t, failing. I think you are exhausted because you are actually doing all the things you are supposed to be doing, and oh, you’re human, by the way. A living, breathing human. A middle-aged female human, living in these fraught, hellscape times.
M laughs again and this time, it sounds more authentic. Lighter. She moves the conversation to a book she’s reading and I accept this shift, understanding the importance. She was vulnerable and in turn, I validated her, and now, she’s going to sit with it all.
This is a common theme- people, women I know, who are burnt out. Women who are expected to do everything and be happy doing so. Grateful. Positive. Loving. Women who are not allowed to be grumpy, tired, disappointed, or pissed off. Single women. Married women. Solo mothers. Partnered mothers. Adoptive mothers. Natural mothers. Women in their 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s.
The messaging is the same: act as selflessly as possible and when you have a moment that whiffs of selfishness, apologize immediately and make nice. Make everyone feel better and smooth over any discomfort you caused with your irrational and unappreciated outburst.
There are many people who write about angry women and feminism, and I can understand why this piece feels like one of those articles, but it’s not. It’s not up to me to give permission to women to be pissed off. In fact, I’d really rather they gave themselves permission or felt as though they didn’t need it at all. This is about recognizing that the burden of being human is immense. There are so many pitfalls and challenges, and the thought that an individual could traverse such complicated terrain without having a moment once in a while is truly absurd.
And no, this isn’t just about mothers, though certainly, I’d like to shine a light on that incredibly intense responsibility.
This is about people and in particular, women. The specificity of my focus has less to do with anything else and more to do with my experience as a woman. I have first-hand knowledge of such things and therefore, it feels appropriate to speak from this perspective.
Sure, it’s easy to throw this perspective into the category of “the damaging effects of sexism” but I think it’s so much bigger than that.
I was amending a policy at work and there was a provision that spoke to the rights of women. The beginning of the conversation I had with a colleague was why such language is needed when the policy is generally one that protects rights, and would therefore be applicable equitably, across all genders.
My response was swift in the way that deeply ingrained sentiments often are: That sounds great, I said, but we all know that doesn’t really mean what we think it means. Rights for all have historically really meant rights for some. Rights for the chosen. Rights for those who the right bearers elect as those deserving of rights.
Those rights are big and expansive, like body autonomy and voting, and then small, and forgotten, like being able to have a bad day.
Every human is individual in how they see the world, what their experiences are like, and how they react. More so, because a person will assuredly change given the passage of time and the way the world is shaped around and for them. And then, there is the complicating factor of partners or children. Families and friends. Relationships. Work. Other humans who enter the sphere and create additional dynamics and complicating factors.
I am stating the obvious, but at the end of the day, I think what I’m trying to say is perhaps it’s time to change the narrative. Maybe it’s time to talk about all of this in a different way.
We can no longer talk about equity, not really. I know that feels intensely controversial, but it’s true. I don’t know if equity is in the cards, and furthermore, I’m not sure what equity means anymore. How do you equate humans who are all so different?
Maybe it’s just a space where everyone is allowed to be (subject to laws, regulations, social constructs and all that shit, obviously). Maybe if we do that, then we can naturally see who is who, and what is what. Maybe the best way to Darwin our society isn’t to create a prescribed hierarchy, but to see how the dust settles when we just let everyone be.
Are you a bad mom when you aren’t comparing yourself? Are you a shitty parent when you are given. grace, by yourself and your loved ones, and are entitled to have feelings and a day, and maybe a month, and definitely a moment?
Maybe when we let everyone be, we will finally see just how human we all are.
X
L.
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