Supermom Has Left the Building
A SCENIC VIEW OF MY PAST
When I was a toddler, my parents rented an apartment on the second floor of an elderly couple’s home. Mom and Dad were working hard to make ends meet, and they made do without many modern conveniences, such as a washing machine and dishwasher. (I can barely imagine a day without my iPhone, much less years without those guys!) I’m sure bringing me into the world didn’t make it easier to get by; as you know, babies can swallow your paycheck faster than an anaconda can consume a crocodile. Nevertheless, my parents did the best they could with what they had. As it happens, one of the items they weren’t in a position to purchase at the time was an electric coffeepot. Since they found the idea of going without coffee preposterous (now you know where my addiction originates), they percolated their daily dose in a pot on the stove the old-fashioned way. And that’s where our story begins.
One afternoon, my mom had a friend over for caffeine and conversation, which I imagine she desperately needed. I’m sure she wasn’t getting out all that frequently to socialize, since I was a handful! No, really. I was a forty-year-old in the body of a one-year-old, with enough energy to power the Las Vegas grid. And little did she know, she was about to be pregnant with her second child. It’s probably advantageous that she snuck in a little grown-up time while she could.
Anyway, the coffee was brewing and the two women were catching up. While they chatted, I was on a sightseeing tour of the living room. Since I was newly mobile and still finding my equilibrium, I was toddling around like a seasick Bobblehead. My mom kept glancing over to check on me, ensuring I was as far away from that piping-hot coffee as I could be. When it was ready, she noted my whereabouts and brought it over to the table. After pouring her friend a large portion, she turned around and headed to put the pot back on the burner.
It’s nothing short of amazing just how quickly a baby can make her way across a room. In no time flat, I’d stealthily slipped under the tablecloth and ambushed my mother’s friend. Before the woman could react, I’d gotten up on my tippy toes and grabbed for the saucer beneath her cup. I then proceeded to pull it toward me, the contents of the cup raining down on my arm and splashing onto my chest.
For those of you who don’t know, a pot of coffee made on the stove is significantly hotter than it is in most electric coffeemakers, since there’s no way to control the temperature. I managed to give myself second-degree burns and was rushed to the hospital for treatment. After that incident, it’s sort of fascinating that coffee didn’t become my arch nemesis rather than my best friend and energy ally!
I still have a scar on my wrist to show for the accident and, while I can joke about it now, nobody was laughing back then. My mom’s friend felt awful that she couldn’t stop me in time, but no one felt worse than my mom. She wouldn’t let herself live it down and still has nightmares about it to this day . . . almost as many as she has over the time I flipped out of my baby carriage. Which may explain my affinity for roller coasters.
CUT TO . . .
After all these years of making fun of my mother’s mishaps, I now play a starring role in my own accidents and foolish mistakes. We mommies might be able to leap the baby swing in a single bound and change diapers faster than a speeding bullet but, sadly, I’ve discovered our kryptonite . . . ourselves!
MY CRADLE CHRONICLES
It’s Call of Duty, Mommy-style. Forget the Xbox version—this is real life, ladies! You may find your new child-friendly existence is somewhat reminiscent of a video game, chock-full of action and adventure. I, for one, put the Super Mario Bros. and Sonic the Hedgehog to shame as I dodge projectile sippy cups, slide across the kitchen floor on fallen cereal, scramble to stop the canine cartel from baby toy thievery, rescue Marlowe from the villainous coffee table corners (which are padded but still scarier than a back-alley run-in with Voldemort), and defend our fragile glassware from a potentially catastrophic fate at the hands of our resident tiny humans.
Who needs a demon-hunting, tomb-raiding, galaxy-fighting heroine when there’s a kick-ass mom around? We may not be saving humanity from intergalactic destruction or the forces of evil, but we perform feats of derring-do on a daily basis as we deftly handle our workload, family life, and social calendar. Lara Croft seems significantly less cool when you’re a baby-carrying, snot-wiping, coffee-wielding, laundry-tackling mommy on a mission to tame tears and restore peace to the planet, right?
Okay, maybe I’m getting a little carried away with this metaphor. The point is, we are pretty darn capable of juggling everything. Everything, it seems, except the pressure we put on ourselves to be perfect. Sometimes there’s an antagonistic, sinister evildoer that enters the picture and wreaks havoc. And all we have to do is look in the mirror to find her.
INTRODUCING . . . THE NAG
We all possess our own internal judge and jury. I refer to mine as The Nag. The Nag tells me I would be a better mom if I made different decisions, had more patience, or handled things like a remotely competent parent would. She’s the inner critic who badgers me with phrases like “Your child is too old for a pacifier” or “You should never have so much to do that you can’t take the time to read a third bedtime story” or “All of the other day care mothers remembered today was the teacher’s birthday.” The Nag is one snarky little wench! She doesn’t show up every day, but she’s in there. She’s been known to heckle, pester, and patronize me, and she knows just when I’m feeling vulnerable. I imagine you have your own version of her, and she (or he . . . I wouldn’t want to discriminate) probably lives inside you like a cancer. Because guilt is a bright-red, fire-breathing, foulmouthed beast that can crush your spirit. If you let it.
Your Nag may have been present for years, but prepare for her to get even more vocal once children are in the picture. Motherhood inflates The Nag’s ego like she’s just made the cover of InStyle. She’ll get off on instructing you how to parent your child. For instance, she might begin by telling you that you’re being selfish by going back to work after the baby is born. She might condemn you for choosing formula over breast milk or threaten all-out war over the fact that you’ve taken a five-minute break in front of the TV. Eventually she’ll start hassling you about how your child has four fewer words in his vocabulary than he’s “supposed to,” how his inconsistent eating habits must be your fault, and how you should already be potty training him, even though he’s clearly not ready yet. Her opinions never end.
My personal Nag hounds me relentlessly about my house not being clean enough and the number of items left on my to-do list when the day is done. She gets after me for paying less attention to my dogs now that I have kids and for spending less alone time with my husband. She occasionally tells me I’m not funny enough, not pretty enough, and not a good enough parent to be writing a book on the subject of motherhood—even one that’s not meant to be a how-to. I’ve come up with some creative ways to ignore her when she climbs atop her soapbox, but she’s extraordinarily resilient. She keeps showing up after I think she’s been killed off—much like a soap opera actor.
I’ve recognized this issue within myself for a long time, and I know I’m not alone. Insecurities can creep in for even the toughest and most confident of us, so why shouldn’t we be honest about it?
The prevailing complaint among my mommy friends is “I’m worried that I’m screwing my kid up.” No one’s harder on us than we are on ourselves, and it’s a hard mind-set to break! I encourage you to start resisting the self-contempt early on. Sometimes you have to bind and gag The Nag so the positive thoughts have enough room to take hold. If you don’t, she’ll start to rule the roost. She’ll collect your imperfections and blow them up into billboard-sized posters that call you demeaning names like “a second-rate mom,” “an unsupportive wife,” and “a failure.” The name-calling doesn’t help you, your children, your marriage, or your self-esteem. Don’t be afraid to tell The Nag to take a hike! Stuff her in your sock drawer, flush her down the toilet, or lock her in the hall closet with the board games and dust bunnies. I don’t care what you do with her, as long as she knows she isn’t welcome in your heart or in your head.
Here are some ideas to help you fend off The Nag:
The Nag will try to be a Debbie Downer.
Though she’s a persistent little tart, keep thinking positively. Make sure she’s overshadowed by The Dreamer, The Believer, The Faithful, and The Mom Who Loves Above All Else. I know it sounds like I’m sanctioning multiple personality disorder here, but I hope I’ve gotten my point across.
The Nag will try to compete with your inner advocate.
Sometimes it’s easy to blur the lines between your helpful subconscious voice and the one you should ignore. We all have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other; we just have to decipher which is which. Learn to recognize your gut, and hold on tight!
The Nag will tell you you’re too distracted while entertaining your child.
Don’t feel guilt-ridden over being a multitasker; it’s a prerequisite for being a mom! You may find yourself mentally crossing off the next chore on your list while reading The Cat in the Hat, or typing an e-mail while you breastfeed. Most of us have so much to take care of on any given day that we can’t help but mentally jump ahead to the next thing. Try to refocus and appreciate the time with your baby, but don’t feel like you’re a bad mom for acknowledging your workload at an inopportune time. Kids demand our attention nearly every waking minute of the day. If we didn’t get other things done simultaneously, we’d exist only for their amusement. I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to be a full-time playground, merry-go-round, and puppet show, I at least need to eat a sandwich and make sure the mortgage is paid while I’m doing it.
The Nag will say you should be able to fix all things, do all things, and be all things.
That’s a load of crap. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask for help, and you should! I still need this reminder myself every now and again (like every day), because it’s second nature for me to handle everything on my own. The checklist-making, i-dotting, t-crossing control freak in me wants to be able to accomplish everything I’ve set out to do and still have time to take a bubble bath before bed (fat chance).
Sometimes it’s tough to wrap your head around the fact that asking for help doesn’t mean you can’t do something by yourself; it means you’re strong enough to know that assistance makes a task easier. Or faster. Or just downright more enjoyable. Since feeling overwhelmed can be a very real part of being a new mom, it’s important to allow others to lend a hand. For instance, don’t be afraid to ask your husband to vacuum the living room floor or make a dinner here and there. Go ahead and blame it on me if he gives you pushback! Let your best friend babysit so you and your hubby can have a date night, and let your mom do the laundry when she offers. If you don’t want her folding your husband’s safari-printed boxer shorts—and I don’t blame you—set those aside for a later load.
My girlfriends had the right idea when they put out a meal plan sign-up at my baby shower. Anyone who wanted to assist us by bringing a meal filled their name in on a calendar and then, while dropping off a lunch or dinner, got to take a sneak peek at our new baby girl. (Online services are available for this as well, such as MealBaby, which rocks!) I’m telling you, this was my saving grace. I didn’t have to worry about meal preparation for two solid weeks after having each of my girls!
Cooking is generally my therapy, but who wants to make a pot roast in lieu of staring at that stunning little face? I bet even Paula Deen wouldn’t have given up a chance to cuddle with her boys just so she could whip up a peach cobbler. So buck up and let someone be there for you. You can find a way to return the favor down the road if you’re uncomfortable feeling indebted. And you know what? I bet your friends would be satisfied with a heartfelt thank-you. A homemade card can do wonders.
The Nag says you should take to motherhood like a fish takes to the ocean.
I’m calling her bluff. To stick with the fish metaphor for a moment, not all of us are born with gills. Be patient with yourself! You may find yourself bogged down by the everyday tasks, because even the daily grind can be difficult to handle at first. That’s okay! You have to grow into your fancy new motherhood shoes. And sometimes those shoes are harder to walk in than a pair of freaky-looking, high-fashion, runway stilettos with an aquarium in the heel. In other words, it ain’t easy, friend. We all walk a little too close to the edge of the sanity cliff from time to time.
The Nag will tell you to entertain everyone who stops by to meet your new baby.
Don’t fall for it. The only people you need to take care of right now are your child, yourself, and to a certain extent, your husband. You don’t need to serve guests or worry about whether your floors are polished. Visitors are coming to marvel at the beautiful child you had, not to be treated to freshly baked scones and hot chocolate. As long as it’s the kind of organized chaos you can live with, that’s all that matters.
The Nag will tell you not to cut corners.
Cut those corners anyway, as long as they aren’t imperative to anyone’s welfare. For example, I’m a firm believer that meals should be eaten off of paper plates during the first few weeks after you come home from the hospital, just so you can eliminate the additional work of dishwashing. I’m pretty green-conscious, so my recommendation is disposable but biodegradable dishware. That said, you do what feels right to you. I’m not here to be the recycling police!
The Nag will conduct a rude running commentary and throw it in your face.
Fun fact: I have a tendency to say things to myself out loud, so sometimes The Nag speaks through me like I’m a ventriloquist’s dummy. But an inability to filter your dialogue is hurtful, even when you’re the only one in the room. You know the saying, “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Well, I can definitely tell you that if you talk to yourself, you’re around to hear it, so it resonates and reverberates like a kettledrum in a football stadium bathroom. When you call yourself stupid, even in jest, or lament how big your thighs are getting, you’re doing yourself a disservice. Express yourself in a way that reflects kindness and confidence—even when it’s directed toward you! In other words, treat yourself the way you want others to treat you. What you project institutes the code of conduct and the values your child will be following later in life, so go ahead and promote that self-love early on. Let it seep into your child’s consciousness as well as your own.
The Nag will compare your parenting to everyone else’s.
I’m notorious for doing this. At some vulnerable moment, you’ll meet a mom who seems like she really has her shit together, is wise beyond her years, and knows every parenting trick you can only dream about. Know that she has her demons too . . . They just didn’t surface during that particular outing to Macy’s. Maybe the only reason she’s calm is that Valium she took an hour ago. You don’t know everyone else’s story.
The Nag will want you to be a psychic.
This is, of course, a ridiculous notion, but there are times you’ll curse yourself for not having enough foresight. As my childhood scalding coffee mishap proves, you can’t always prevent disaster. At some scary and unfortunate moment, your child will skin his knees on pavement, smack his head on a doorknob, or burn his hand on a hot casserole dish. Not even a crystal ball can save our children or us from those circumstances. We can’t always second-guess when our kid will have a major meltdown in the middle of Home Depot or refuse to take a nap before our trip to visit the in-laws. We can’t predict when they’ll have a leaky diaper on a friend’s white couch, throw their bottle across a restaurant, or spontaneously lick the filthy shopping cart handle. Don’t beat yourself up when you can’t prevent accidents from happening!
The Nag will brainwash you into trusting everything you read on the Internet.
The Internet is a petri dish of horror stories where women congregate to share, get things off their chest, and defend their own insecurities. And since most of us have enough of those on our own, we probably don’t need to add to the list. The Nag will lead you to believe too much of what you read. The fact is, there are a million sides to the motherhood story, and not all of them are going to coincide with, or reflect, your own experience. Filter through the advice and tales of woe, then follow your heart. It also helps to find a comfortable, nonjudgmental, dependable, and safe friend to talk to when you’re having trouble sifting through the information on your own.
The Nag will try to say you’re a bad parent simply because you aren’t teaching your baby to play chess while in the womb.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a solid education and a well-rounded child, but your kid isn’t slow to learn just because she wasn’t reciting Shakespeare during her ultrasounds, isn’t multiplying and dividing cheese puffs on her high chair tray, and won’t be learning a new language for each day of the week. There are some brilliant kids out there, and yours might be one of them. But he might not be, and that’s okay too.
Hell, when we were teenagers, Mayim used to spend her days on the Blossom set listening to Elvis Costello and doing the New York Times crossword puzzle in indelible ink. Meanwhile, Joey Lawrence and I were in deep existential discussions about which member of Boyz II Men was the better singer. Mayim went on to earn a degree in neuroscience, and I . . . well . . . I wrote this cheeky, sarcastic book you’re reading. Not all of us were put on this planet to be a brainiac. Still, I’d like to think we’ve both been successful in our own right.
I’m not discouraging your child’s education. I want Gray and Marlowe to be intelligent and thoughtful too, and that requires a certain amount of at-home stimulation on my part. Education is a combined effort between parents and teachers—we need to work hand in hand. And I thoroughly believe you should motivate your child in a way that makes you comfortable. If your four-month-old is ready for calculus, more power to you (I think). But there’s a reason those introductory alphabet cards say “A is for Apple,” “B is for Balloon,” rather than “A is for Antidisestablishmentarianism,” “B is for Biochemistry.” I suspect most of us don’t really believe little Johnny or Betty need to be the next Madame Curie or Louis Pasteur–in–training, and there’s a lot of pressure out there without us piling on more. It’s fine if your son or daughter is playing with sock puppets instead of reading Dostoevsky and spouting Molière! Don’t let the crazies (including The Nag) make you feel like you aren’t challenging your child enough. And don’t start writing off that college scholarship just because the next-door neighbor’s kid was talking two months before yours.
There’s a lot of pressure to fill our children with knowledge. I worry about it too, but I try to remember that the knowledge I’m imparting won’t all come from books and extracurricular activities. It comes from the time I spend with my girls, introducing them to the world around them and helping them appreciate it. Not all learning comes from a textbook or is done inside of a classroom, and everything starts out as a new experience for babies! I was reminded of this constantly in the first few months of my girls’ lives. It was thrilling to watch them discover the joys of mastering simple tasks, such as clapping their hands or shaking their heads . . . We take so much for granted! If your child is a prodigy, I’m appropriately impressed. But I’m even more impressed by the kids who’d rather climb trees than play video games or who say “please” and “thank you” without being prompted.
When Gray was ten months old, we spent Easter dinner with a friend and her family. Her daughter and son, who were seven and four respectively, came up to Gray on several occasions throughout the evening and offered her baby-suitable toys. They tried to include her in all their activities, despite the fact that she was so much younger. At the end of the evening, the little girl approached Gray and said, “Maybe a hug before you go?” It brought tears to my eyes that this sweet seven-year-old thought to show affection to a child she’d just met. This was followed by the little boy coming over to hold Gray’s hand while he bid her farewell. Neither of them had been instructed to do so. Now that’s what I’m talking about! Being intellectually advanced has its merits, but so does being polite, kind, and generous with one’s heart.
The Nag will want you to be everything to everybody.
If your mother is anything like mine, she probably used to say, “You can’t please everyone.” And you know what? She was right. To someone out there you are too rich, too poor, too cynical, too optimistic, too outspoken, too quiet, too lenient, too strict, too conservative, too liberal, too forgiving, or not forgiving enough. I’ve been called all those things at one time or another, and some of them are even true. My point is that no matter how solid and noble our parenting efforts may be, someone out there will vehemently oppose them. This tends to be a never-ending struggle for me, because I’m a people pleaser by nature. Like most folks, I dislike being judged, unappreciated, or misunderstood. But all of that is overshadowed by the fact that I want to be a good parent to my kids. At the end of the day, we have to remember that no one else’s opinions should define how we parent.
IN THE EYES OF THE FLAW
Not one of us is infallible, especially yours truly! I’m far from perfect, and I do mean in a galaxy far, far, far away from perfect. Just because we feel good about our choices and convictions the majority of the time doesn’t mean we never falter. Some days you’ll feel like you’ve got the whole parenting thing down; other days you’ll wonder who that delirious woman in the mirror is. Any mom who tells you she’s never questioned her own parenting decisions—or felt ashamed, flustered, remorseful, humbled, humiliated, had self-doubt, or sold herself a white lie—is full of bologna. (Or pulling the wool over her own eyes!)
We moms can be our own worst enemy, even regarding things that are beyond our control. I’m the first person to stand up and say that I make mistakes. All the time, and sometimes more than once! I don’t see any way around that, because parenthood is all about living and learning . . . and then, in my opinion, laughing at yourself later. So tell The Nag within you to get a freaking sense of humor!
THE MORAL OF MY STORY
My superhero cape and tights are on permanent back order. That said, I’ve realized one of the most important things I can do as a parent is to forgive myself when giving my best backfires. We may not be able to rescue the world from the brink of destruction, but we can raise our kids with love and integrity while still giving ourselves the freedom to make mistakes.