RACING AROUND THE MOMMY TRACK
Mood:  not sure
I am reading a very good book called Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety by Judy Warner. It is basically hitting on the head, more on the side of the head than on top dead center, of what has been bothering me with my own life as a new mother. Essentially, women are under extreme pressure to raise bright, healthy, well-adjusted children with little or no assistance from society. This would be society with both the big S and the little s. Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, cousins and sisters live too far away to help. These mothers? husbands are there but only half-way. They?re the sensitive and supportive type that the 21st century requires American men to be, but they?re essentially leaving the majority of caretaking in the hands of their wives?and not just the caretaking of the children but of them and of the households.

Some of this does truly apply to me, but the book, of what I?ve read of it, is deeply flawed. For one, it only focuses on the upper-middle-class mother who is well-educated, gave up a high paying job, and now fills her life with raising the perfect child in the perfect suburban environment. If not in the perfect suburban environment, then whatever is the closest facsimile. It doesn?t focus on a woman like me who is clearly middle-class by all socio-economic definitions, but in the lower levels of middle-class. It doesn?t really focus on women like me who are African-American (or anything else besides born and bred American White) or continue to work or have the extra difficulty of trying to raise a ?special child? (in this case a child who is openly adopted and dealing with society?s insensitivity to that).

I have not given up anything grand to become a mother like a career. I brown bag my lunch, do my own pedicures, attempt to wax my own eyebrows, and wear spit-up proof clothes. I wear comfortable shoes, a wash and go hairstyle, and limited my make-up application routine to eyeliner and lip gloss, if I?m lucky. I attempt to go with the flow when it comes to my daughter yet I am cursed with the desire to be perfect or, at the very least, be approved of. The approval I crave comes from several different people and in different forms. I know I shouldn?t crave any outside approval at all, but I need it.

Quietly and to myself and not even really to God, I?m trying to figure out how the adoption agency thought I?d be a good mother. Me? The overweight asthmatic woman who will most certainly not be playing tag with my child when she learns to run? The woman who can?t get pregnant without intervention and then properly miscarries every single pregnancy is a different manner? (This should be some sign to someone that I wasn?t supposed to be a mother.) Finally, I am the woman who once swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and chased it with a glass of wine. How could the adoption agency approve me after knowing all this? Does this sound like a woman who would be a good mother? Who knows?but this doubt makes me need approval. Wait?what I really mean to say is that this doubt causes me to need other people to NOT question or doubt my methods. If they also approve, that would be extra great.

The older mothers, who are old enough to be my mother, at work are constantly giving me advice whether I ask for it or not. I?m being told constantly about not leaving my child alone in her crib when I use the bathroom or about the benefits of private school or teaching my child to read an ?Adult? bible when she?s old enough or that I should make my daughter?s own baby food from scratch. I?m a newbie in the office and I am also their junior (in age not necessarily in the job?s hierarchy). I take the advice with a smile and a seemingly deep sense of gratitude, when inside I am seething. I want them to shut up. Or, at the very least, answer the question I put forth. I?ve learned to not ask questions, but when asked how my baby?s doing I gush like the proud mommy and say ?she?s doing great, sleeping through the night but she?s starting to exhibit some signs of separation anxiety.? When will I learn to shut up before I get to the ?but? part?

Then there?s the stressful, to say the least, two months of living with my mother-in-law. I don?t know who I want to kill first. Her or I for even suggesting that she come and help. It was a stupid idea. Men don?t understand this. Wives, they sort of get it. Every single day, every single decision I made was met with a question from my mother-in-law. Once she changed a pair of socks I had put on my daughter to another pair. I?m not sure why, but it irked me. Then, one day, I tried to have a mom-to-mom; woman-to-woman conversation with her. Tried to explain that with my new job and becoming a new mom, I was more stressful than usual. That I usually handle things better and that I?m more polite. It was an apology of sorts and a request. Here I was, succumbing to her better mothership and hoping for some bit of advice--maybe even a firm shoulder shake or the vague ?things will get better.? Do you know what I got? I got an ?I can take [your daughter] to live with me until she?s older.? She volunteered to take my child away--Another smack in the face, another brick of doubt in my doubt tower. Another day when someone else doesn?t approve of me. She essentially told me, whether or not that was the intention, that I was too much of a mess to raise my own child and that it would be best for her to take her.

There?s also the disapproval of strangers, from the control freak mothers described in Warner?s book who are trying to raise the perfect child or them giving up their jobs were for naught. I don?t seek these people?s approvals, but that doesn?t make their disapproval less painful. At the children?s desk of the library where I work, I talk to the moms and coo over their babies and toddlers. I ask time-killing questions like ?where did you get that stroller?? They become excited and smile and ask incredulously if I am also a mom. When I respond, I get follow up questions. How old is she, blah, blah, blah? When she was younger, I?d tell them her age and they look at me disapprovingly. ?Three months and you?re already back to work?? I nod and then the follow up statement to the follow up question is ?wow that?s so young for daycare!? I bite my lip. I become extremely angry. I want to jump over the table and throttle them. I want to shout that ?I couldn?t afford to stay home any longer, so I?m back here at work helping with all of the Birth to 5 years reading programs so your child can have a step up in life.? But I chill. I set myself up for the disapproval. Don?t get me started with the breastfeeding Nazis.

I say all of this to say that there is some sort of perfect mother pathology in this country that is being forced onto mothers by women and mothers?their so-called sisters in the struggle. And those of us, who want their children to have better lives or a ?fighting chance? or have the slightest of doubt in their mothering ability, inject that pathology directly into our veins like Heroine addicts. We start to judge ourselves and our ability on the sick neurosis of society. We?re slowly killing ourselves with the desire to be perfect when that perfectionism doesn?t exist. We can?t appreciate the smiles our babies give us because we?re so wrapped up in our guilt or desire to be overwhelmingly approved of. The slightest fussiness from our child only verifies our poor mothering ability. Any who?Ms. Warner is saying it better than me in her book.