The Bad Mother

I'm going to chop up and post some stuff that I wrote a few years ago, especially since many people I know have recently had babies...Remember it is completely unedited, so you'll have to take it as it is. However, constructive feedback is welcome. Many of my friends have already seen it...At some point I want to come up with a new title. One more note: People who don't know me sometimes don't fully appreciate the tongue-in-cheek, It's-okay-to-laugh-at-yourself tone of my writing. I'm working on better delivery in the future (writing, that is, not babies!)

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THE BAD MOTHER

Author's note: These are the largely unedited ramblings of a mother. They do not claim to be classic literature. I hope that I can collect stories from other mothers and put them into a book later when I have time. This book is likely to serve two purposes apart from the cathartic value for myself. Because we mothers are all different as people, some mothers may read it, think I'm horrible, and feel they are better mothers by comparison. Wonderful! I like to help people. Others may read it and feel that they are less alone in this chaotic world. I would love to be an organized person, but I am not, so I'll have to learn to love creative chaos.

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As I make my way through the squalor and wave a crowd of kids away from the computer like flies from manure, I sit down to write my first book... or perhaps article. With a tacked up flannel sheet on my left that has replaced the torn-down curtain, and Clifford keeping me company on my right, I bask in the oblivion (new found) of the computer screen. I know the kitchen table is covered with rice Crispies and milk (rice Crispies are the worst to scrape off when they dry) but that mess will have to wait. I've often heard of women who spend hours on the computer chatting with a new boyfriend while their kids destroy the house. First, I have neither the time or energy for any kind of boyfriend – cyber or otherwise - and second, Even if I can get a turn on the computer I always have a “helper” who is teaching me how to dismantle the printer while I work. My house gets destroyed anyway.

Let me just say that the first thing I did which in some circles could label me as a bad mother, besides a small amount of coffee and half a beer once prenatally, was to have a C-section. Then I had one more (after trying everything including hypno-birthing not to), and then I had one more (scheduled of course – it's the way to go). It's not having the C-section so much as being naive and unassertive enough to allow the medical profession to bully you into having one that labels one as bad.. Unless you read the kind of magazines I read, this may not affect you. My daughter decided that hanging upside down in a womb was just an uncomfortable way to spend her last month in utero, and she thought she'd stay right where she was, transverse and comfortable, thank you very much. As it turns out, she doesn't like to do ANYTHING the way everyone else does it, just on principle. With my second child, I was determined to have a VBAC. I read a wonderful book called “Labor Without Fear” or Tears, or something like that. It would have all been roses if I were one of the percentage of women (like my mother) who just pop kids out easily as pie with a smile on their faces. In the end, after three days of contractions (hypnobirthing didn't help me although it did wonders for my husband) and no sleep and no dilation past ½ a centimeter, I had to choose between lunch and a C-section. It was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon and it seemed the nice thing to do to not inconvenience my wonderful doctor and to have the baby at a reasonable hour. Or I could eat lunch and be in great pain for another 24 hours or so and probably have the same result. I just felt like a failure because I didn't successfully imagine enough flowers opening (per the book Labor Without...). It's nice to talk about natural childbirth and women taking control of our own bodies and health care when all turns out nicely. The truth is, childbirth and parenting are among the most humbling of experiences.

WHAT IS YOUR CAMP?
Depending in which circles a woman travels and what she does or doesn't read, she is bound to be perceived as a bad mother by the other “camp”. If you walk into the library during story hour and mention the words “family bed” you're likely to incite a riot complete with flying diaper bags. With my second child I subscribed more religiously than I should have and less religiously than some to the Attachment Parenting Camp. I was doomed from the start considering that I was a working mom and you can only become so attached to someone with whom you are not constantly in contact (or so my camp says). Our daycare provider got our son on a nice routine for four days of the week, and I was his slave the other three. I used to put him in the swing instead of the sling occasionally and joke about the attachment police coming over and citing me for child abuse. Once I pointed to my happy boy smiling away in the bouncy seat, and questioned a friend as to whether she thought he was being damaged because he wasn't being held. She pointed out that from the bouncy seat, he could easily look around and take in the world, whereas in the sling he couldn't see as much. This should have been a no-brainer, but it seems as if parental instinct diminishes with every parenting book read. Although I still lean mostly toward the attachment camp, if I were to do it over again I would at least let myself brush all of my teeth while my little darling fussed a little. Once my brother expressed disbelief and disapproval that I hadn't “sleep-trained” my middle child yet. I immediately assembled a collection of articles to send to him that cited permanent emotional and biochemical damage done to children who are “sleep trained”. Then, in a sleep-deprived state of desperation, I finally ferberized (sleep trained) my son about eight or nine months too late. (all those months of sleep lost!) He's now five (seven), very well attached and sleeps great. So do I. I imagine that, being a counselor, somewhere along the line I confused the term attachment disorder with attachment parenting; the former being a result of a lack in the latter. The fact that it was a complex matter of degree among other things didn't occur to me.