Mama Trauma Is Here
Perhaps you always wanted to be a parent. Perhaps you’re destined to be a great parent; you have no issues, concerns or fears about how your children will turn out as adults. Well, this is for the rest of us who are dazed and confused about this silly and traumatic predicament we call parenting.
I was eight years old when one of my older sister's friends defined my life for me. It was a shimmering summer day and I was annoying them by breathing the same air.
My world froze when she spun around, pointed at my chest and intoned, "You won't meet the love of your life and marry until your late thirties. Before that, you'll have several fabulous affairs and an exciting career." As she dropped her hand and turned away, she tossed me a devastating one-liner, "Oh and by the way, your pants are too short. You look like a nerd."
She was right on all points. Of course at eight the news about my pants was far more disturbing than her predictions about my love life. At the time, anyone who wed in her late thirties was destined to be childless. Even if I had thought about it, I would have been unconcerned since I knew motherhood wasn't for me.
It's not that I didn't like kids. I was, after all, a kid. I just had no maternal instinct. While my girlfriends played house, I deployed my new chemistry set to blow up the basement. When I played with baby dolls, I poked their eyes out. My Barbie bossed Ken around. As a teen I had a best friend who dreamed of becoming a wife and mother, or Marilyn Monroe. Whichever came first. I thought she was brain damaged.
I was happy as a tomboy. My father taught me to run and jump, to climb trees and beat up boys. Our weekends were filled with riflery, archery, horseback riding and ice-skating. How could playing house stand up to that kind of competition?
I believed my parents when they told me I could be or do anything I wanted. I figured I'd be a psychiatrist or a race car driver. Motherhood was low on the list.
So perhaps it was fated I become a mother.
The press for the job was pretty terrific. It should be. We've had thousands of years to practice the pitch. Society, survival of the species, mothers who want to be grandmothers, misery wanting company, husbands who think raising a child will be less work than caring for a dog. All of these forces of nature push young unsuspecting women toward motherhood. Now, I can't imagine my life without my son...though it's not for lack of trying.
Do I love him? Yes. Desperately. There's nothing wrong with my son; it's motherhood that's the problem.
Look at any mother, especially during the first six months of the infant's life. See that dazed look, the eyes slightly unfocused and wide, the dark circles and bloodshot sclera? That's not lack of sleep; that's shock. The military calls it PTS, Post Trauma Syndrome. The difference is that you're living behind the enemy's lines every day of their life for the first eighteen years.
Grab the blankets and huddle around the campfire as I expose the greatest conspiracy of all time. The only conspiracy that has lasted since Eve had Cain and Abel: the conspiracy of motherhood.
Think about what they tell us. Listen carefully:
"You won't understand until you have your own child. It's a feeling unlike any other." (They're right. It's a combination of terror, claustrophobia and nostalgia for your old waistline.)
"You don't know what unconditional love is until you hold your newborn baby." (Of course it's unconditional. You have surrendered unconditionally and agreed to care for the new life until it's at least 18 or it puts you in the Golden Oaks home.)
"You'll be surprised at how patient, loving, unselfish you'll become. It's like having an unlimited well of patience to draw on." (You'll be surprised when you realize that your levels of patience and selfishness don't change. There's a well of patience all right, but a toddler brandishing a sharp stick has filled it with holes.)
"My pregnancy was the best time of my life. I never felt happier, healthier, more fulfilled." (Of course, it was. Pregnancy is when everyone caters to you and your husband treads on cat feet. The hard work begins after the baby is born. Trust me, she hasn't slept a wink since her water broke.)
I don't suggest we outlaw having children. After all, who's going to contribute to Medicare and Social Security when it's our turn? I just want to help you survive the institution. Don't buy the brochure. Ignore the pretty color photos.
Mama Trauma is here to help.
I was eight years old when one of my older sister's friends defined my life for me. It was a shimmering summer day and I was annoying them by breathing the same air.
My world froze when she spun around, pointed at my chest and intoned, "You won't meet the love of your life and marry until your late thirties. Before that, you'll have several fabulous affairs and an exciting career." As she dropped her hand and turned away, she tossed me a devastating one-liner, "Oh and by the way, your pants are too short. You look like a nerd."
She was right on all points. Of course at eight the news about my pants was far more disturbing than her predictions about my love life. At the time, anyone who wed in her late thirties was destined to be childless. Even if I had thought about it, I would have been unconcerned since I knew motherhood wasn't for me.
It's not that I didn't like kids. I was, after all, a kid. I just had no maternal instinct. While my girlfriends played house, I deployed my new chemistry set to blow up the basement. When I played with baby dolls, I poked their eyes out. My Barbie bossed Ken around. As a teen I had a best friend who dreamed of becoming a wife and mother, or Marilyn Monroe. Whichever came first. I thought she was brain damaged.
I was happy as a tomboy. My father taught me to run and jump, to climb trees and beat up boys. Our weekends were filled with riflery, archery, horseback riding and ice-skating. How could playing house stand up to that kind of competition?
I believed my parents when they told me I could be or do anything I wanted. I figured I'd be a psychiatrist or a race car driver. Motherhood was low on the list.
So perhaps it was fated I become a mother.
The press for the job was pretty terrific. It should be. We've had thousands of years to practice the pitch. Society, survival of the species, mothers who want to be grandmothers, misery wanting company, husbands who think raising a child will be less work than caring for a dog. All of these forces of nature push young unsuspecting women toward motherhood. Now, I can't imagine my life without my son...though it's not for lack of trying.
Do I love him? Yes. Desperately. There's nothing wrong with my son; it's motherhood that's the problem.
Look at any mother, especially during the first six months of the infant's life. See that dazed look, the eyes slightly unfocused and wide, the dark circles and bloodshot sclera? That's not lack of sleep; that's shock. The military calls it PTS, Post Trauma Syndrome. The difference is that you're living behind the enemy's lines every day of their life for the first eighteen years.
Grab the blankets and huddle around the campfire as I expose the greatest conspiracy of all time. The only conspiracy that has lasted since Eve had Cain and Abel: the conspiracy of motherhood.
Think about what they tell us. Listen carefully:
"You won't understand until you have your own child. It's a feeling unlike any other." (They're right. It's a combination of terror, claustrophobia and nostalgia for your old waistline.)
"You don't know what unconditional love is until you hold your newborn baby." (Of course it's unconditional. You have surrendered unconditionally and agreed to care for the new life until it's at least 18 or it puts you in the Golden Oaks home.)
"You'll be surprised at how patient, loving, unselfish you'll become. It's like having an unlimited well of patience to draw on." (You'll be surprised when you realize that your levels of patience and selfishness don't change. There's a well of patience all right, but a toddler brandishing a sharp stick has filled it with holes.)
"My pregnancy was the best time of my life. I never felt happier, healthier, more fulfilled." (Of course, it was. Pregnancy is when everyone caters to you and your husband treads on cat feet. The hard work begins after the baby is born. Trust me, she hasn't slept a wink since her water broke.)
I don't suggest we outlaw having children. After all, who's going to contribute to Medicare and Social Security when it's our turn? I just want to help you survive the institution. Don't buy the brochure. Ignore the pretty color photos.
Mama Trauma is here to help.