The Bog of Motherhood
MY friend Gina warned me about this before. Female friends, once they give birth, suddenly receed into the murky depths of motherhood. The strange, candy-colored bog regularly spews out pictures of your friend's babies as they grow bigger and stronger each day. Where oh where is the carefree, fun-loving friend now? Gone forever, lost forever in the bog of wifehood and motherhood?
Or are Gina and I just sourgraping old maids? :D
"How are you?" you ask your friend over the phone, over the miles.
"I'm ok, the baby is growing sooo fast!"
Errr...
Why must everyone assume instant love and caring when it comes to babies and children? I have actually not met some of my friend's babies and I do care that they are healthy and well. But when I ask my friend how she is, I really want to know how she is. Not how her baby is doing.
Besides, when the child is old enough to tell me how he or she is doing, I'll be happy to get to know her and ask her myself.
I believe in the niceties and the ritual of getting to know people slowly and in good time. To me, babies and children are no exception.
I remember being a child and I remember my parents' friends who all wanted to pinch my cheek or tousle my hair or hug me--without the benefit of an introduction. I remember being just a tad upset and squirming away. The women smelled of make-up and lipstick. Sometimes of strong perfumes and suffocatingly so. The men had icky, prickle beards of moustaches (this was the 70s). I would step on their bell-bottomed trouserlegs and squirm away.
The exception was a person, an adult called Arnel. He was my Aunt Miriam's suitor. Aunt Miriam lived with my family then and Arnel, with his crazy afro hair and his guitar slung over his shoulder would arrive bearing gifts of food and flowers for my aunt. He was a "combo" player in a folkhouse near the American airbase. I liked him very much because his hair looked funny and he was thoughtful enough to introduce himself to me and shake my hand. That was the first time an adult had ever introduced himself to me that way. He also did not lunge at me with a hug and a kiss the way my mother's office mates did. He sat with his guitar while we waited for my aunt and asked me about myself and about school. He asked me about my friends and my best friends. And I asked him about his guitar and his favorite songs and why his hair was that way. "Because I like the way it glows in the lights when I play at the folkhouse," he said, laughing.
Arnel eventually became Uncle Arnel when he and my aunt got married. He was my favorite of two uncles. Still is.
I look forward to getting to know my friends' children this way. In their own time. It's just dismaying to see how motherhood and wifehood, specifically housewife-hood just swallows up my friends' lives.
Why don't my friends send pictures of themselves? Why do I get pictures of kids I haven't even introduced myself to? Where did I read that once a woman becomes a mother, her life is no longer her own. Sounds poetic. Sounds deep and profound. It also sounds scary. I guess it is sometimes true. The wallet-sized studio portraits of toddlers, these photos that I get in the mail every five months--without fail--are portraits of my friends.
Of course, not all my friends get swallowed by the bog. My friend, L. has handled motherhood quite well, with her identity intact. When I e-mail her and ask her how she is, she tells me about her excitement over her research getting published in a journal article. She does have lots of photos of her kid, but she does not send them out like spam.
When I think about L. I think about my mom who is the anti-L. When I was small, she always complained about the toppled glasses of water, the broken vases, the drawings on the walls and the fact that her life has been swallowed by the necessity of having to make some money to feed us. We, her kids, became verbal punching bags for her motherly frustrations.
If I had had the wisdom and insight I have now when I was 8 years old, I would have told my mother to get a grip on herself, hire a shrink, reserve a chunk of the day that would be hers and hers alone, get involved in things she was passionate about, and not blame her offspring for every goddam problem she encounters. And get used to the fact that children do get clumsy sometimes and break drinking glasses. It's a childhood specialty.
Of course, now that I'm grown up and understand the phenomenon of the bog, I have forgiven my mother for subjecting us to her monologues.
Not everyone is like my mother, of course, and thank God. But I guess I feel that motherhood is overrated. They all say it's something that can complete a woman, and that it is profound. But they don't say it is such a huge responsibility, a life-changing and engulfing event that will take over every aspect of your life whether you like it or not.
I also think that motherhood is a calling. Some are better at it than others. And one doesn't have to give birth to a human being to become a good mother. I frankly think I'm going to make a GREAT mom. Because I have spent all my life being selfish and giving at the same time. I do what I like. I travel, I go to school, I write. And I give back to society through my choral singing and through journalism. If and when I finally become a mother, I won't me lamenting about the things I didn't get to do. I would be telling my little offspring about the Noli Me Tangere character he is named after. Or tell him about the time I almost got mugged in Leicester Square by a Harry Potter poseur. I'd be such a cool mom my offspring's playmates would all want to play at our house because we would have a library full of comics.
Except, I am not a mother yet. There are days when the hormones kick in and I desperately want to be one. I shake a fist at the sky and wail "Whyyyyyyyyy (did-I-spend-too-much-time-with-one-boy-that-by-the-time-he-realized-he-wasn't-ready-for-marriage -the-banshee-had-surfaced-and-I-was-well-on-my-way-to-the-dreaded-30s) ?" And there are days, especially when Aunt Flo is late, when I think oh no, this is not the best time for this to happen!...Or is it?
I will be candid and say that when I become a mother, I would like to be like L. I must not let myself goooooo to the daaaark side.
Or are Gina and I just sourgraping old maids? :D
"How are you?" you ask your friend over the phone, over the miles.
"I'm ok, the baby is growing sooo fast!"
Errr...
Why must everyone assume instant love and caring when it comes to babies and children? I have actually not met some of my friend's babies and I do care that they are healthy and well. But when I ask my friend how she is, I really want to know how she is. Not how her baby is doing.
Besides, when the child is old enough to tell me how he or she is doing, I'll be happy to get to know her and ask her myself.
I believe in the niceties and the ritual of getting to know people slowly and in good time. To me, babies and children are no exception.
I remember being a child and I remember my parents' friends who all wanted to pinch my cheek or tousle my hair or hug me--without the benefit of an introduction. I remember being just a tad upset and squirming away. The women smelled of make-up and lipstick. Sometimes of strong perfumes and suffocatingly so. The men had icky, prickle beards of moustaches (this was the 70s). I would step on their bell-bottomed trouserlegs and squirm away.
The exception was a person, an adult called Arnel. He was my Aunt Miriam's suitor. Aunt Miriam lived with my family then and Arnel, with his crazy afro hair and his guitar slung over his shoulder would arrive bearing gifts of food and flowers for my aunt. He was a "combo" player in a folkhouse near the American airbase. I liked him very much because his hair looked funny and he was thoughtful enough to introduce himself to me and shake my hand. That was the first time an adult had ever introduced himself to me that way. He also did not lunge at me with a hug and a kiss the way my mother's office mates did. He sat with his guitar while we waited for my aunt and asked me about myself and about school. He asked me about my friends and my best friends. And I asked him about his guitar and his favorite songs and why his hair was that way. "Because I like the way it glows in the lights when I play at the folkhouse," he said, laughing.
Arnel eventually became Uncle Arnel when he and my aunt got married. He was my favorite of two uncles. Still is.
I look forward to getting to know my friends' children this way. In their own time. It's just dismaying to see how motherhood and wifehood, specifically housewife-hood just swallows up my friends' lives.
Why don't my friends send pictures of themselves? Why do I get pictures of kids I haven't even introduced myself to? Where did I read that once a woman becomes a mother, her life is no longer her own. Sounds poetic. Sounds deep and profound. It also sounds scary. I guess it is sometimes true. The wallet-sized studio portraits of toddlers, these photos that I get in the mail every five months--without fail--are portraits of my friends.
****
Of course, not all my friends get swallowed by the bog. My friend, L. has handled motherhood quite well, with her identity intact. When I e-mail her and ask her how she is, she tells me about her excitement over her research getting published in a journal article. She does have lots of photos of her kid, but she does not send them out like spam.
When I think about L. I think about my mom who is the anti-L. When I was small, she always complained about the toppled glasses of water, the broken vases, the drawings on the walls and the fact that her life has been swallowed by the necessity of having to make some money to feed us. We, her kids, became verbal punching bags for her motherly frustrations.
If I had had the wisdom and insight I have now when I was 8 years old, I would have told my mother to get a grip on herself, hire a shrink, reserve a chunk of the day that would be hers and hers alone, get involved in things she was passionate about, and not blame her offspring for every goddam problem she encounters. And get used to the fact that children do get clumsy sometimes and break drinking glasses. It's a childhood specialty.
Of course, now that I'm grown up and understand the phenomenon of the bog, I have forgiven my mother for subjecting us to her monologues.
Not everyone is like my mother, of course, and thank God. But I guess I feel that motherhood is overrated. They all say it's something that can complete a woman, and that it is profound. But they don't say it is such a huge responsibility, a life-changing and engulfing event that will take over every aspect of your life whether you like it or not.
I also think that motherhood is a calling. Some are better at it than others. And one doesn't have to give birth to a human being to become a good mother. I frankly think I'm going to make a GREAT mom. Because I have spent all my life being selfish and giving at the same time. I do what I like. I travel, I go to school, I write. And I give back to society through my choral singing and through journalism. If and when I finally become a mother, I won't me lamenting about the things I didn't get to do. I would be telling my little offspring about the Noli Me Tangere character he is named after. Or tell him about the time I almost got mugged in Leicester Square by a Harry Potter poseur. I'd be such a cool mom my offspring's playmates would all want to play at our house because we would have a library full of comics.
Except, I am not a mother yet. There are days when the hormones kick in and I desperately want to be one. I shake a fist at the sky and wail "Whyyyyyyyyy (did-I-spend-too-much-time-with-one-boy-that-by-the-time-he-realized-he-wasn't-ready-for-marriage -the-banshee-had-surfaced-and-I-was-well-on-my-way-to-the-dreaded-30s) ?" And there are days, especially when Aunt Flo is late, when I think oh no, this is not the best time for this to happen!...Or is it?
I will be candid and say that when I become a mother, I would like to be like L. I must not let myself goooooo to the daaaark side.
posted by Natasha Vizcarra at 10:41 AM
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