Confessions of an imperfect mother

I don’t know about you, but the job of “mother” is the hardest job I’ve ever done. I could complain for days about the work hours (24 hours a day, 7 days a week, every day of the year), job description (primary bottom wiper, middle of the night getter-upper, whining receptacle, throw up cleaner upper, primary worrier, social chair, entertainment chair, personal driver, teeth and total body hygienist, teacher of every subject imaginable… must I go on?), and performance reviews (I hate you!).

I’m a strong woman, though. I can deal with crying, messes, and a sore back, assuming another human being is willing to listen to me complain about all three.

What drags me down, though, is the overall sense of inadequacy. Motherhood requires hundreds of tricky decisions every single day, such as:

• Should I give in and buy her the little stuffed dog that only costs $5 or should I tell her we can’t afford it?

• Should I go into her room and snuggle a bit when she tells me she’s scared to go to sleep, or should I tell her to be the big girl that she is?

• Should I let her eat macaroni and cheese for dinner, even though she just had it yesterday for dinner (and the day before that), or should I use the best of my mom powers to encourage her to try baked chicken and broccoli?

You see? It’s just maddening. I was just talking about all of this with my good friend Deb. I visited her in Virginia this past weekend. To date, she’s one of the few–if not only–mothers willing to admit that she faces the same dilemmas.

For instance, this Sunday her 7th grader sprained his ankle, which caused her to spend her afternoon at an emergicenter. She’d already spent her entire rainy Saturday sitting on wet bleachers at various soccer tournaments.

On Monday morning her son made his way to the bus stop on his crutches. Later, she felt guilty for not giving him a ride.

I asked, “How far away is the bus stop?”

“One block.”

“He could have walked, couldn’t he? I mean, if he can’t make it one block on crutches, he’s not going to make it through the school. I don’t know why you should have assumed he’d need a ride.”

I watched the guilt drain from her face.

“I love you,” she said.

I love her, too, because I can complain about the Super Mothers–the ones who really make me feel inadequate–and Deb will complain about them right back.

You know these mothers. They drive 5 kids to soccer, dance, lumberjacking–all sorts of activities–for 8 hours straight and then come home to make a gourmet dinner. And they do all of this with a smile. Worse, they claim to actually be happy, saying how much they love sitting on a cold bleacher for hours and hours while their kid sits on a bench down below.

I also feel inadequate among the non-mothers, because they have all sorts of ideas about what a good mother is and is not. These are the people who see me at my husband’s coffee shop in the morning, moments after I’ve dropped our daughter at preschool. There I am sitting, drinking a cup or tea or coffee, with a few blissful moments to myself. These sorts saunter up to me and ask, “Um, where’s your daughter?”

I want to ask, “Is it a crime for a working mom to have 5 minutes of peace in a day? Should I just sit my rear in the electric chair now? I bet you’ve never asked my husband about the whereabouts of his daughter, now, have you? Have you?!”

But I don’t. Instead, I say, “She’s at preschool” and I leave it at that. I know how it is. I’m a freelance writer. Most people assume freelance writers sit at home in front of the TV. They have no idea that I truly do sit in front of my computer, and that I actually make money in the process.

They also don’t understand that writing requires a great deal of concentration. Much like cardiac surgery, it’s not something that can be done with a 4 year old nearby.

I get that, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to skewer such people when they stir up my sense of inadequacy.

I’m capable of feeling inadequate pretty easily, too. It takes so little. For instance, a working mom might complain, “I wish I could spend more time with my kids. I wish I didn’t have to work.” I feel inadequate because, um, I can’t say I’ve ever felt that way. I love my daughter, but I love my work, too.

At some point over the weekend, Deb and I were talking about mothering and about guilt. I told her, “You shouldn’t feel guilty for having an identity. Sure there are some moms whose entire lives revolve around their children. That’s not us, but that doesn’t make us bad mothers.”

I really did mean that, too. I just have to work on listening to my own advice.

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