Like many, many people, I tuned in last week to watch Oprah's episode titled "True Mom Confessions." The overall vibe of the show -- a show sprinkled with appearances by many parenting bloggers, by the way -- was that motherhood is hard. It's hard in all the very obvious ways and also in a million subtle, unique, often embarrassing ways, as well. I don't think it's a newsflash that the job is difficult, never-ending, void of accrued vacation time and sick time and personal time. I think the message (rightfully, I can see) annoyed quite a few people (and definitely quite a few bloggers) because is this actually the show's topic? That motherhood is hard? Perhaps tomorrow Oprah will cover what happens when you throw a red sock into your load of whites. I took the show at face value, though, and even laughed along a time or two because, yes, it's hard and, yes, we all know it's hard, but if it helps someone -- anyone! -- get through the day because they feel they aren't alone in it being hard, then great. The topic itself didn't bug me in the least. You go right ahead and do your thing Oprah.
But this? This just doesn't sit right with me. That the beautiful, cool, authentic, awesome Rebecca wasn't allowed on the show because she isn't a "down-the-middle mom" makes me want to scream. Makes my stomach tighten up. (Only figuratively, keep in mind, as motherhood sure hasn't offered me a literally tighter stomach, I CAN PROMISE YOU THAT.)
Listen, I get it. I get that this wasn't just a conversation, this was a conversation on a widely watched nationally broadcast television show and there is much that goes on behind the scenes to make it a widely watched nationally broadcast television show. But here's why I'm upset: if you're going to encourage an open dialog among mothers, even if that dialog doesn't necessarily break ground or revolutionize the identities of American mothers -- even if that dialog is seemingly obvious dialog -- you really screw your chances of being taken seriously -- of even being heard -- if you worry more about sound bites and on-air personalities and not rocking the motherhood boat by keeping someone off air who doesn't suit you.
I didn't feel prepared for motherhood, and I'll be straight about that. Those first weeks were the darkest, hardest, most unbelievably shocking weeks of my life but not because I ignored the heeds of other mothers or because other mothers weren't talking about how hard it can be but because motherhood is such a unique experience it would have been nearly impossible to prepare myself for what my experience would be. In a way, that's beautiful. No one has felt exactly what I've felt as a mother and so my story will never be unoriginal. But in many ways my post-partum self felt painfully alone and isolated even when surrounded by other mothers. Hearing other women speak (even briefly, even on the Internet, even on well-lit, well-produced Oprah) of how hard motherhood is for them didn't stun me, no, but it did help me, and I won't feel silly about that. I had no problem with the topic of Oprah's show, but I have a very real problem pretending that all the many millions of faces of motherhood aren't good enough exactly as they are. How can we feel free to talk about what it is like for us, to feel encouraged to be straight about those very unique yet very universal yet always personal experiences when some of us aren't even accepted enough to be seen?
A few weeks ago Rebecca posted something else about family and parenthood and I sat at my keyboard and silently cried while reading it over and over, for a fourth time, a fifth, a tenth. I was just emerging from a very difficult fog, and her post was a life raft for me. I knew it was hard for everyone but I still felt so ridiculously and pathetically alone. Sure, it's hard for you but I must be the only one who wants to go outside and scream and never come back in. Yes, I rationally know it's hard for all of us, but I'm still fracturing down the middle alone Then Rebecca's words found me: "It takes time to become a family and we were no exception. . . . The hardest months. Months starved of sleep and good
hair days and cigarettes when all I wanted was to chain smoke cartons
at a time. Sneak away behind the bleachers and scream. . . . We
would eventually hold each other's hands and hearts, shatter one
another to pieces, then glue each other back together again, like new,
but improved. Much improved. . . . But not without a fight or hundreds of them." Yes, motherhood is hard and that's not brand new information and no-one is going to take out a billboard to alert the masses, but that doesn't mean it's irrelevant to acknowledge, to speak aloud of, to talk openly and honestly about if we need to and, damn, sometimes we need to. If we're going to encourage a universal dialog among mothers then every story, every face, every voice needs to be valued. It just doesn't make sense to me to peddle honesty if there are men and women behind the curtain molding that truth into something that will look good on a television promo.
Rebecca went on to say "For now, though, there is much to be celebrated in how far we've come,
the sparkles in all of our eyes even as we brace for the possibility of
darkness. We have owned the night before and can once again conquer it
if need be. The blessings in our pockets are like fireflies."
I am a mother. I am my son's mother. I trip and I fall on the same day I soar. I cry on the same day I'm higher off the smell of his neck than I've ever been off cheap champagne. I tip-toe through the dark, scared to stir the monsters, right before I bask in the bright blessings of it all. I am bad at this while simultaneously being exactly what he needs. I couldn't breastfeed for longer than a couple months but I'm the only one wearing out the hardwood floors while bopping him up and down when he wants nothing to do with dreams. I can't stay home with him every day, but I'm the one near tears when I scoop him up after work. His existence makes no one giddier, happier, more breathless than it makes me, yet it's likely made no one else fall to their knees in fear, consumed by inadequacy. I think I'm so warmed by being a mom today because of how dark it was for me just weeks ago. I think both the dark and the light have made me exactly who I am. When you say that motherhood has only one punchline-fitting, cue-the-applause look, when the other looks aren't good enough -- for whatever reason, even if it's some silly doesn't-look-vanilla-enough-for-television reason -- you're saying he's not good enough, that my kid and her kid and hers and hers and hers aren't good enough. And, no, I won't stand for that.
I am fat. I am un-showered. I am plain. I frown. I don't speak in 15-second sound bites. I can't figure out what the hell to do with my hair. I haven't been tan since just after my honeymoon. I am short. I'm willing to wager I'm not the first who came home from the hospital with their kid and thought over and over What did I do? There are middle-of-the-road moms, and there are moms spilling out the sides, walking the line, raising their kids in the cities not the suburbs, dropping their kids off at daycare because they like to work, have to work, want to work, need to work. There are moms who breastfeed for years and moms who can't, won't, don't. There are moms who look the "cliched part" and moms who slip into tattoo parlors and smoky bars and make eyes go wide when they announce they have a kid. There are moms in sweater sets and moms in skinny jeans. Yet, every mom is just right.
Motherhood has an endless number of faces.
Every single one is a beautiful, must be celebrated, perfect fit.
