Psst! Hey, you. Yes, you, the one with your pajamas still on, with the baby that just won’t nap and the laundry pile that’s beginning to resemble the Rocky Mountains. And you, the one that’s been at the office since 6:30 a.m. trying to get the report done early so you can sneak out before rush hour and maybe make it in time to see the last 10 minutes of soccer practice.
Yep, I’m also talking to you, over there in the corner, trying to juggle the volunteering you offered to do at school, the birthday party that’s coming up next week, and the business trip that’s around the corner. And the one standing next to you, the one with the three kids and the fog of exhaustion? Nudge her awake please, I’ve got something to tell her, something to tell all of you. It’s kind of important.
I know, I know: I’m not an expert, I haven’t authored a baby book, I don’t have a PhD in psychology, and what I know about homemaking can be summed up in the number of meals I’ve burned in the last month alone.
But I know a thing or two, all the same. See, I’m you. And you’re me. All right, I may have fewer (or more) kids than you; I may not have the same kind of job (or any “job” at all that earns a pay cheque); I’m sure we don’t look alike in the least (unless you’re tall for a woman, blonde from a box, and still holding on to a good percentage of your “baby weight,” in which case we might be twins.)
But we’re the same, you and I, aren’t we? We’re moms, and we’re mothering the best way we know how, hour after hour, day after day. Every morning is the start of a new chance to get it right – and another opportunity to get it wrong. The former seems infrequent, the latter evidence of our growing suspicion that we’re not quite good enough at this mom thing, after all, which is a terrifying proposition.
We know that a great deal – everything, it seems – rests on how well we do this job. There’s just no room for not-quite-good-enough and getting it wrong, is there?
What a strange place we find ourselves in, you and I, trying to be mothers in a generation in which the very word “mother” is both revered and rejected, raised up and torn down, praised and scrutinized.
That’s what happens when an idea gets put up on the pedestal, instead of a real person.
And you and I, my friends, are real people. Sometimes we still have our pajamas on at noon,sometimes we sneak out early and still miss the soccer practice, sometimes we leave our little ones behind to fly across the country for jobs we love, sometimes we watch the clocks at jobs we don’t love because it pays the bills, sometimes we make picture-perfect birthday parties and sometimes we grab a cake at the store, blow up some balloons and hope for the best.
We’re more than cliches and stereotypes - even though sometimes, the cliches and stereotypes seem to fit quite well. (There’s a reason that “harried mom in the grocery store” is a universally recognized image.)
Here’s the thing, moms: it’s nearly Mother’s Day. You might get showered with gifts and appreciation on Mother’s Day or it may go by largely unnoticed.
However it looks at your house, let’s agree to give each other, and ourselves, our own gift this year: a break.
I don’t mean the kind that involves chocolate and a pedicure (though those are nice if they suit you), or the kind that requires plane tickets, or a baby sitter, or a dinner reservation.
Give yourself a reprieve from the idea of Perfect Motherhood: there is no such thing. It’s like unicorns and mermaids and clear skin at any age – mythical.
Give yourself permission to not love every second of every day: when someone tells you that you’ll miss these days eventually, they may be right, but they also have a slightly foggy memory.
Give yourself time: it’s an old joke but seriously, five minutes behind a locked bathroom door can save your sanity once in a while. Don’t feel guilty about it. Enjoy those five minutes, heck make it 10. Give yourself a facial while you’re in there, or just sit in the empty tub with a book.
Most of all, give yourself forgiveness: we don’t value our kids based on how well they performed at the hockey game, how many words they got right on the last spelling test, how perfectly they performed at the piano recital. We value them because they exist, because they are ours, because they’re amazing. Guess what? They feel the same way about us.
Now, can someone remind me of all this the next time I forget it myself? Like, tomorrow probably? I’ll answer to “hey, you, the one who hates making school lunches every day and has a salsa stain on her shirt.”
See? I told you I knew a thing or two. We’re the same, you and I.
Christina Myers is a former Burnaby Now/New Westminster Record reporter, now a stay-at-home parent and freelancer. Follow her on twitter @ChristinaMyersA.
