Our Parents Had a Lot of Stuff Right
Like so many other moms, I sometimes find myself bogged down with petty and obnoxious mommy politics. There is really no escape, since these days, all moms are (apparently) fighting for some kind of mommy prize after death. They sit and talk, gossip, philosophize about their children and other children, their friends and their friends’ friends, you name it, they have the answer.
I’m not sure what makes a mom think she has all the answers, but I wish I could get my hands on that drug and enter the state of hallucination where I believe that I am fit to judge and correct every other mom I come into contact with. These are the women that I lovingly (or not so lovingly) refer to as Boss Moms: they always have the answer, they’ve done everything more often and better than you, and they know exactly “what is wrong” with your child based on simple observation, and it’s usually your fault.
See, for the Boss Mom, a perfect child is possible. More often than not, they believe their child is perfect, not in the I Love My Child and He/She Will Always be Perfect to Me, but in the I am the Greatest Parent on the Planet, of Course My Child is Perfect. They see every challenge met by their child as a notch in their belt, each word, song and milestone met a tribute to their perfect parenting. Not only that, they expect other moms to take heed, and follow their instructions.
Recently an acquaintance of mine was lamenting about her son’s recent jump in shoe sizes. It just so happened that I had a pair of Dash’s shoes that he had worn only a couple times before he grew out of them, and I offered them to her. She looked at me as if I had suggested her son go play in the highway by himself, saying “Don’t you know? Children can’t share shoes, it’s bad for their feet!”
Fine. Bad for their feet. Do you know how many pairs of shoes I inherited from siblings and friends? Even if you don’t want the damned shoes, be polite about it. For all she knew, I had planned on scrapbooking those damned shoes, and was barely willing to part with them. I was trying to be nice, not attempting to screw up your child’s perfect fucking feet.
Moms like this make me want to move Dash to a farm house in the middle of the Texas hill country and never make friends again. I didn’t have four play dates a week growing up, nor did I have a playground right outside my house, or a tent in my living room. I didn’t have a soccer team when I was three, or a network of children and friends that swarmed me at every moment — why should he?
Things were different when we were kids. If there was a birthday party, I got dropped off. My mom had the right idea (and my mother in law actually suggested a similar idea in a recent post’s comment section): don’t throw a birthday party in such a way that all these mothers feel the need to come and stay unless they simply just can’t part with their child for two hours. Every birthday party, every play date, every meeting has to be an orchestrated event planned with careful grace and politics, in order to keep all the moms happy. What they don’t see is that they are totally over-shadowing their children’s time by making the entire day about themselves. I can think of at least three moms that I know who would consider me a bad mom for dropping Daschel off at a friend’s house and not staying. What does it matter if I’m there for every second of it? Afraid that I won’t be there to explain to him “The nice lady is trying to help you learn how to share, can we say share? That’s it, good sharing, Dash, you are so smart, congratulations!”? Give me a fucking break.
You know how I learned to share? By playing with slightly older kids in my neighborhood who quickly taught me (by example) that by sharing, people are more likely to share with you. Simple. My mother never felt the need to turn each lesson into a Super Mom show. If I misbehaved, I was punished, end of story. If any of us couldn’t be nice to friends, we didn’t have friends over. Most importantly, we learned from each other as siblings, and never really had any issues with friends as youngsters. I like to think it was because our mother wasn’t constantly trying to perform for her mommy friends.
These days, however, you’re lucky if you find another parent who doesn’t stress over these kinds of things, constantly trying to display her uber-skills to you. “Watch how I handle this, Paige, you’ll need this in a few months when Dash starts hitting.” Good for you, Super Mom, telling your child (in language he’s not likely to understand) that hitting is bad, as my child sits there listening to your calm, soothing voice thinking that he somehow missed the boat for reassurance. What my son just experienced was a) being hit, and b) his attacker being cuddled and talked to. Bravo. I can’t wait to try that technique out for myself. Why not let them figure it out on their own? Unless someone is getting seriously hurt, what can we really bring to the table that doesn’t alienate one of the kids? I can’t swoop in and save Dash every time something bad happens to him, it’s just not realistic. I don’t want to feel like I have to just because Super Mom can’t resist an opportunity to display her prowess on the playground.
This kind of self-congratulatory parenting drives me nuts. I know a lot of it stems from things we as mothers can’t control, but at a certain point we have to relax or child-rearing will cease to be an enjoyable, fulfilling experience. We are indeed bombarded with images of Do-It-All moms on television, and certainly have met one or two (if not more) Uber Moms who seem to have it all together, but that’s not everyone. I’m not here to judge you, I just want our kids to have fun once a week. I’ve listened to women, in total seriousness, blame mothers for a child’s mistakes, and it makes me sick.
“You know why he hits, don’t you? It’s because she lets him rough-house with his older brother. I just don’t understand how she can let that happen.”
KIDS PLAY ROUGH, stop blaming her! Since when was parenting a competition? Why is it impossible for me to find a mother who isn’t going to spend the entire play date comparing our children and in turn comparing us in some effort to figure out who is doing a better job? Is it because we have so little else in our lives we feel the need to turn parenting into a sport? I sit in these playgroups and get-togethers wondering what would happen if I dared to mention a book I just read, or a song that I like. It’s not allowed. There are only three topics that we can discuss: parenting, our husbands, and how stressed out we are. Guess what? I DON’T CARE!
I am so lucky that German kindergarten starts at age three. My child will be there, sans mommy, learning his alphabet and German numbers in a relatively non-competetive environment. Until then, only minimal play dates. I’d never deprive my son of being socially active with kids his age, but I refuse to let him (or me) become a part of the machine that is Uber Mom.
3 Comments