For the past 8 days, I’ve been sick. Not “take two asprin” sick. I mean, flat-on-your-back sick. Its not covid, strep or even the flu. I am told it’s… wait for it….a nasty cold. Seriously? That is the very definition of adding insult to injury. Y’all, I have felt worse this week than I have have felt in a solid decade… It shall not be referred to as a “cold.” The upside of this beastly experience is that if I had the energy to sing at this moment, I would finally achieve that deep, raspy tone that is usually only perfected through decades of cigarette addiction and despair.
For the past 10 days I’ve been sick. Not “take two asprin” sick, I mean, flat-on-your-back sick. I’ts not Covid, strep or even a respectable flu. I am told it’s… wait for it….a nasty cold. Seriously? It’s the very definition of adding insult to injury. The one upside of this beastly experience is that if I had the energy to sing, I would finally achieve that deep, raspy tone that is usually only perfected through decades of cigarette addiction and despair. If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d record this entire episode for yall in my new Louis Armstrong voice – but it does, so I’m writing instead.
I ordered Instacart today because it seems that people in this house seem to keep on eating whether I am sick or not. Seeing the young delivery girl on my porch, I opened the door, thanked her, and began bringing the bags inside. As the door began to close, I heard the question.
“Are you a mother?”
I desperately wanted to say “ Nope – just had a hankering for 12 Hot Pockets and a case of blue Gatorade.” But as I considered her full, innocent face and kind eyes I simply could not channel my inner Ouiser from Steel Magnolias. I am always so much bolder and snarkier in my head. Sighing, I nodded yes.
“Oh! Well, then Happy Mother’s Day!” She chirped, practically skipping off to deliver more groceries and accost more unsuspecting women with the world’s most invasive and personal question.
Are you a mother?
It seems innocent enough – I suppose – for the young and unseasoned (oh, and also men) to assume that asking someone if they are a mother is a safe and appropriate question with a clear cut answer. further, it seems to be a question that strangers on the street feel completely comfortable asking.
We demand to know … have you or have you not grown another human being inside your uterus and then pushed it through your cervix out into the world? Yes or No?
Answer the question, Dammit!!!
Much like being asked “So when are you going to start a family? Tick tock… aren’t you worried you’re running out of time?” These highly personal, sensitive questions are almost ALWAYS directed at women. No one ever questions men about their virility or vitality. Try dipping your toe into that conversation and wait for the laundry list of men who had babies well into their 80s. (Now, they couldn’t lift, hear or see them, but that’s beside the point. )
No, Great Aunt Ida isn’t likely to approach your cousin Joe at the family gathering and grill him about the health and longevity of his swimmers. She will, however, loudly and boldly predict the exact date you will begin your journey through the Change, and then describe the process in excruciating detail – with a stubborn glob of potato salad bobbing precariously on the edge of her lip.
Why are so few questions considered out of bounds for women? One cannot help but assume that it’s due to deeply held religious and cultural beliefs that having babies is the only reason for our existence at all. The notion that creating, nurturing, feeding and supporting other humans is the singular reason we were put on the planet. For so many people, to be a mother is literally the fulfillment of the Will of God, and to fail to do so is to fall short of the Celestial Plan. Even in 2021, this belief is still fundamental (pun intended) for so many. If you attend church for Mothers Day service this weekend, listen closely… I’ll eat my sunglasses if theres not at least one reading from Proverbs 31. “Her children shall rise up and call her Blessed.”
Are you a mother?
The first time I was asked the question, I was walking into a generic chain-type restaurant…you know, with the giant menu with photos of blue cocktails and loaded nachos….on a mothers day in my mid-late 20’s. Some hostess was handing out roses (natch) from a bucket of sad, thorny prisoners to every woman who walked through the door with the winning answer. Craig and I had already been married for several years and knew we wanted kids someday, but were full swing into our careers and in no rush to make the life-altering commitment that is parenthood.
“Welcome to Chilis are you a Mother?” I was slightly taken aback by the ease with which this perfect stranger delivered such a bold question. I had expected her to ask if we wanted a booth or a table, or maybe if we had ever tried a Bloomin Onion. But I laughed it off. “Me? Nope, not yet. Maybe someday! ” I am happy to report that no rose gave its life for me that year.
In the decade that followed, I successfully avoided the question because the answer was glaringly obvious. I was often obnoxiously pregnant, hauling a baby carrier on one arm and grasping a tiny hand in the other – juggling a blackberry, diaper bag, stroller, sippy cups and Toy Story action figures. To the casual observer, I was either a mother or the World’s Most Harried Nanny, who bore an eerily uncanny resemblance to her charges.
It would be bold (and untrue) to claim that I easily and gracefully embrace motherhood in all of its sticky, relentless and inglorious forms. There are some who do, and I salute them, but there is a lot about domesticity that does not come easily for me. But every day, I do my (very imperfect) best because I love these hilarious, complicated, strong willed, wildly beautiful creatures with every fiber of my being. It doesn’t matter if your child is a tiny baby or a grown ass person – the only certainty of motherhood is that you will carry them in your heart every single minute of every single day, for the rest of your days. No matter how easy and carefree other families may appear through the hazy filters of Instagram and Facebook, be not fooled…No one gets through motherhood unscathed.
Are you a mother?
I think, for a lot of women, it is THE defining question for their lives. Think back to when we were little girls – our brothers were given toys like action heroes and hot wheels with buildable tracks and and legos and told to create and build and imagine saving the world!
WHAT COULD BE MORE FUN???
We were lovingly presented with baby dolls that cry and pee and require feeding and diaper changing. “Just like a real baby.” Super. What the actual what, people? We were not yet able to tie our own shoes, but our life expectations were crystal clear. Even our playtime was filled with service- oriented chores – pretend kitchens, pots and pans, diapers, and vacuum cleaners. I’m surprised they didn’t give us teeny tiny pink ball and chain sets for our first birthdays.
The expectation is that every little girl will grow up, marry a boy (an assumption which is obviously an episode all unto itself) and have children. Period. No one stops to ask if she really wants to get married, or have children, or if she is ready to set aside all selfish pursuits and submit herself to a lifetime of unconditional and unrelenting love and sacrifice for another human being – or several other human beings?
And when the hard-fought decision is finally made… is she required to announce it to the gum-popping hostess at Red Lobster?
I always felt like the question was super invasive. As in, doctors office invasive. “G’day and welcome to Outback Steakhouse – Are you lactating today?” “Is this your first visit to Bennigans, and is everyone at the table sexually active?” “Yes, I see your reservation right here… follow me, and may I ask if any of you ladies are ovulating this afternoon?”
So yeah, I always thought that inquiring about my reproductive history before escorting me to a table was weird, and very personal, and yes, overtly sexist – but I never dreaded Mother’s Day until I lost my mom to ovarian cancer. Any woman who loses her mother at a young age tends to feel isolated, singled out and maybe even a little cursed. At every turn, we are reminded that most people – even “old” people (a classification which has become a moving target) still have mothers who are alive and well and snapchatting their grandchildren. There is something holy and sacred about the unconditional love a mother has for her child. When either of them is taken too soon, the void that remains is almost beyond description.
Even for those who have been spared tragedy, Mothers Day traditions are often heaped with obligations and shoulds, conflict and regret. While some of us grieve the mothers we lost, others regret the mother they were, or resent their own mothers for being the wrong kind …the perfectionist kind, the self-absorbed kind, the unkind kind. It’s a sticky wicket, this mothering thing.
Babies are merely tiny humans – science now tells us that they come into this world being who they are, and as parents we have astoundingly little say in the matter. Ultimately, motherhood amounts to years of repeated instructions, crossed fingers and fervent prayers. Its millions of “I love yous” and “Im sorrys” and “What were you thinkings?” In the years after I quit politics I used to laugh about my new job – I still bossed people around all day, but these people didn’t seem to listen, and worse, I couldn’t fire them, or even get them shuffled to a different department.
These days, I choose to think about my mothering the way George W. Bush described the lasting legacy of his presidency. To paraphrase…
By the time people figure out whether or not I’m actually any good at this job, I’ll be long gone.
As mothers, we all wander around in a fog – completely lost ourselves but more than willing to offer advice and directions to anyone who will listen. Ironically, the only way to feel better about our mothering ability is by smugly assessing the performance of our colleagues.
Scene I: Preschool holiday party: “Hey look its Will’s mommy! We never see you! Heard you got a big promotion – Good for you! Of course, I don’t know how on earth you let someone else raise your kids… I could never do that to my little Mary Katherine Grace Elizabeth but of course, she’s advanced. Sure hope you pay that nanny well – she’s got the most important job of all!” Charges off to fill the remaining slots in the gluten free snack signup on her clipboard.
Scene II: Adult cocktail party “So, what do you do? You don’t work… at ALL? Wow … I don’t know how you do it. I mean, I didn’t spend decades building my career just to quit and change diapers all day… I would lose my damn mind. Good for you, though!” Turns away in search someone smarter / more ambitious / interesting.
Through the years, I have been on the receiving end of both of these scenarios and have undoubtedly slighted other women – especially if I was feeling inadequate or vulnerable. We all have the same job, but secretly fear that we are coming in dead last in the imaginary Perfect Mother Competition. It’s why we are so hell-bent on justifying our choices and criticizing everyone else’s.
Girlfriends – do you suppose the guys sit around the bar after a day of golf and judge each other by the number of camping trips chaperoned or hours of homework assistance? Think anybody whispers behind their backs about how many sweaty, sticky, miserable school Halloween parties they missed due to work trips? No one in the history of humanity has ever suggested that a man quit his job to raise his children – particularly a man who has achieved any measure of professional success. Men do what they need to do, and what they want to do. And society asks very few questions.
Any honest woman – single or married, with children or not – will freely admit that she has been questioned, quizzed and second-guessed for her choices her entire life.
Men don’t get judged because they are all too busy thinking about themselves to bother with thinking about other men. Women are raised to aspire to the images found in Vogue, Parenting Today and Southern Living. When we inevitably fall short in whatever aspirational category, we self soothe by judging each other. Girls, we have only ourselves to blame. Comparison is lighter fluid on the embers of insecurity – and as my dear friend Debbie likes to say…
Insecurity is the root of all evil.
Debbie lehardy
Are y’all mothers?
Some years ago I was in Dallas and went to lunch with my sister before heading to the airport. As we walked up to the host stand, I had actually forgotten it was mother’s day but I could tell the question was coming before it was even out of his mouth. I wanted to do one of those slo mo karate chop things where you hit someone right in their throat and they can’t talk…maybe forever, if you do it right. Not only had we lost our mom to cancer, and then we lost our dad, too. My baby sister had just turned 40, was going through a divorce and no, she actually didn’t have kids, so no, host stand dude, she won’t be winning your little procreation game today, but thanks so much for asking, and why the hell is this happening when all we wanted was a taco and a Margarita?
I am pleased to report that I successfully resisted the urge to shank him, which was Plan A – admittedly a bad plan. My next thought was to whisper-scream in his face at his insensitivity, but that might have caused a scene, rendering us with neither reservations nor margaritas – possibly an even worse outcome than the certain prison sentence that would have followed Plan A. I quickly settled on Plan C – drink margaritas, curse all of the stupid Hallmark holidays, and concoct a myriad of morbid, awkward and yet hilarious replies for the next time we got asked the question… not to be listed here, or anywhere, ever.
Are you a …
Stop. My dear sweet clueless hostess, Uber driver, feckless preacher, waiter, gas station attendant… whatever your walk of life – Before you ask that question…Stop and think.
Maybe her adoption just fell through, she just had a miscarriage, or spent thousands on fertility treatments that didn’t work.
Maybe her child is gravely ill or has passed away and she can barely breathe.
Maybe her relationship with her mother is strained, or her mother is suffering from dementia and no longer recognizes her.
Or, maybe she is a mother, but she is also a daughter without a mother. Her heart is aching, but also full. She doesn’t care about your well wishes or your manufactured Hallmark holiday. She’s holding it together today for the sake of her own children. She doesn’t need your grocery store rose, your judgement, or your questions.
What she needs is a table, a big smile, and the wine list.
Happy Unconditional Love day.
So thoughtful, Gretchen. Everything about this rings true to my experiences hearing from so many in the various scenarios you mentioned. Women agonize over this question, holiday, etc for so many reasons. “Am I a mother?” — when I’ve had 2 miscarriages but no child in my arms to point to?” —“Am I a mother?”—when I just lost my only child on this earth? “Am I a mother?”- when I have fostered dozens of children needing a mother for a season but not one of those children stayed with me throughout all of mine because I was helping to be a bridge to a forever home?”—-“Am I a mother?” — so many stories much more complicated than these.
Happy unconditional love day, indeed.
I laughed out loud several times while spending my Mother’s Day catching up on my I-phone! Hope you enjoy Gretchen’s true-to-the-bone descriptions of womanhood!