I failed motherhood long before my daughter was born.
I gained 52 pounds. Mostly from white sugar.
I took the pre-natal vitamins as sporadically as I flossed my teeth. Which only happened after an intense time of self-loathing followed by a subsequent list of promises to better myself: Floss. Do one brain exercise a day. Eat some fruit. And take those horse pill vitamins that make me gag.
The Guilt Begins
But my failures didn’t end there. They came in all shapes and sizes. McDonald’s, cold-cuts (apparently these cause diseases), low water intake, a consumption of hot dogs and glasses of wine (or two), a failure to read books to my child while in utero, loud music and it wasn’t even Beethoven, traveling beyond the 28th week (I was on the travel-for-work-till-your-water-breaks type of schedule) and the biggest failure of all: I got an epidural. And while you might think epidurals have been a mainstay for quite some time, there is a growing insurgency of women, doctors, and naturalists who will convince you that your child will simply be born part-animal; slower, smaller, and more prone to diseases, adult therapy, and life failures if you choose to go this man-made route.
So I got the epidural. Ended up having an emergency c-section. Didn’t hold my baby until eight hours later. Didn’t read any of the What to Expect Now That You Have A Baby Alien books. Showed up for her first round of shots not even knowing there was a debate on whether I should immunize or not. And, I only nursed her for four months (a secret I guarded closely for fear of disapproval from leche lovers).
I remember the day my fragile, new-mom mind got the best of me. What if I have set Annie up for failure? Maybe those vitamins were going to make her smarter but now she will always be a C-plus student with no drive or desire to become educated and now she will never have a real job and maybe she was emotionally scarred during the emergency c-section and she will never trust me again and she will probably act out her insecurities during her teenage years and we will end up on Dr. Phil talking about why I failed her as a mother. Whew…
My insecurities sent me over the edge. I cried all day in bed and neglected my infant as I thought about how I had already ruined her future. On top of that, I informally diagnosed her with Hot Dog and Wine Disease.
I knew early on… I flunked motherhood. At least by this world’s standards.
A Great Big Lie
Being a new mother in this day in age, in this country, in this community of rich Dallas/ Fort Worth “mommies” who push their babies around in $1,000 strollers (and refuse to serve anything but organic food and goat milk, attend baby yoga, and still find time to make it to the gym and look fabulous) makes me want to pull my hair out and start a club for loser moms. I’ll be president. With luxury baby boutiques, upscale playgroups, elite schools for babies as young as six months old, and a throng of women clamoring to have the most organic baby, it’s easy to fall prey to motherhood myths. They are different for every stage of mothering, for every generation, and in every culture. But they are always there. Always.
Motherhood myths say that doctors and mom experts are the final authority on how to raise your child. They say that being a mom is easy and that the other mom is always doing it better than you. They say that if you are sad, lonely, stressed, bored, tired, less than in love with your child, or just plain miserable, that you have failed. They say that joy should be abundant in new “mommies” (a name I refuse to use for myself). They say that if your kids make a mistake it is because you didn’t properly discipline them. And if your kid isn’t a prodigy or on the road to athletic success by age seven, well, you’ve missed the boat. They tell moms to take the blame for everything. Bumps, bruises, the common cold, autism, even terminal cancer.
Motherhood myths are so prevalent that we don’t even realize they have become the ones calling the shots. They are now the ones defining what it means to be a good mom. But I have to wonder, who’s smarter? Babies-R-Us, Graco, and the multitude of books that tell us how-to, or the quiet prompting of the Holy Spirit who has guided mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, families and communities to raise children around the world for thousands of years?
HWJM?
(How Would Jesus Mother, duh)
I knew my daughter would be raised on the road. As I tried to come to terms with unconventional mothering, my good friend Jackie Roese said this, “Jenny, this is God’s daughter. Jesus will show you how to mother her. Don’t listen to anyone else; just listen to Jesus. He will give you instinct. He will give you direction. He knows her better than any book. Your job is simply to love her well.”
And can I just say this is the best advice I have ever gotten?
It never occurred to me that God might be able to help me parent. I didn’t realize he had read the books. But I am finding that he quietly guides me as I learn to love this little girl. He gives me patience, endurance, creativity, common sense, hope, joy, a clear mind, and a spirit free from fear and timidity. He prompts me to notice teachable moments and fills me up so that the overflow rains down on my daughter.
My job is to love my child the way Jesus loves her.
Growing Up
So I am learning that the only true motherhood myth is the myth that every mother is the same and every child follows a formula. The myth that says you can separate child rearing from the Holy Spirit. That a book knows better than the Creator.
I am learning that there is nothing wrong with preparing and being educated as you navigate the world of parenting. But when the feeding schedule, baby sign language, torturous schedules for the sake of our children’s “success,” or guilt of not being a good-enough parent becomes consuming…then the modern American ideal of perfection has replaced the timeless way of mothering that simply involves prayer, Holy Spirit intuition, and love.
I am learning to let God himself define what it means for me to be a good mom to this little girl. I may not do much of anything by the books, the books that I never bought and read, but I do love her well. And God is gracious to remind me that that is enough.
Jenny Simmons has brought Annie on 67 airplanes, 3 subways, two boats, and one crazy taxi ride. As of publishing, the Hot Dog and Wine Disease has still not manifested itself.
taken from ChatterMag.com