Supermom

Sometimes the word mom still catches me off guard. For just a second, I think, “What? Me? A mom? But I haven’t finished growing up!” Then I find the familiar, precious sense of being happily and permanently ripped open. The feeling is so personal, so tied to the existence of two, small beings, it’s somehow at odds with the role, either the archetypal mother who has endless compassion, strength, wisdom and big boobs, or the more current picture of a successful mom, who is nothing short of a superhero. I wonder if there is a mom in history who feels like a successful superhero. L exclaimed in awe the other day, “How do you know so much about that?,” and I felt a tiny bit like a superhero. But that feeling was quickly tempered by the looming disillusionment of when he realizes I don’t know everything. The kids themselves are starting to see me through a cultural lens, taking all that I offer with entitlement, railing against my authority, reacting with anger if they don’t like a meal. One screamed in tears it was my fault he stubbed his toe while he was playing by himself outside. They both blame me for everything. It’s shocking to realize I help create their expectations through my own secret, internal pressure to be a perfect mom. Then again, they’re at that age when the world is rushing in. I’m sure they’re getting input from all over the place about what a mom should be.

The boys enjoyed kindergarten with the innocence of no other experience. They got turned on to all sorts of things I’ve managed to avoid until now. Doritos. Minecraft. Pokemon. Gummy worms. They are still so childlike, yet so… not. Both still jump on me the way they have since they could. Now, I can’t quite relax like I used to. Their weight can take me down. I’m a little afraid, awed by their strength and energy. I bought them the SING soundtrack, and without pretense, they love most of it. But they will play “Oh. My. Gosh.” on repeat forever, which, in case you are lucky enough not to know, is a vapid-yet-catchy techno-mix with bitchy-girl-voices that repeat ad nauseum, “Oh. My. Gosh. Lookit. Her. Butt.” with a male voice that occasionally says, “So bigggg!” My lesbian feminist warrior is deeply offended, but even she gets silenced by the mom-in-me who can’t bear to crush enthusiasm.

These days, I mostly feel like just another mom dealing with kids who won’t listen and an overwhelming pile of laundry. Somehow, I have even less time now to pause and reflect. I think back on when I adopted a puppy from the pound, years ago. Someone there told me that if puppies grow up together, and form their own pack before bonding with humans, they become impossible to teach. Having twins often makes me feel like I’m trying to tame a pack of unruly puppies.
They are so caught up in each other, they completely tune me out. Between the kids ignoring me, a partner who works a ton, and a sense of cultural invisibility from being a stay-at-home mom, I feel like the anchor on a trapeze team, swinging by my knees up high, with empty arms like tree trunks, a backdrop for acrobats doing fancy flips and taking bows.

The boys just turned 7. (L cut his own bangs the night before their party, which required a desperate attempt by me to clean up the cut, and then to clean up the hair in the bathroom, which keeps us in the tradition of pre-birthday-party-bathroom-disasters.) Turning 7 should be a milestone up there with 16 and 21. No more kinder. No more going into the women’s bathroom with me, no more clothes with a T in the size. When you’re 7, people aren’t as tolerant of things like whining, picking your nose or nature pees. You have to accept that the world isn’t fair and you often don’t get what you want. You have to do more chores. It’s been a year of hard love and having to get up and out every morning. It’s also time for skills that make the world just a bit bigger and more fun: going on bike rides, reading, swimming, climbing…
 There is still magic, like tonight during D’s bedtime “ask me questions!” ritual. I kept asking him math problems whose answer was 10, and he started giggling because I was making him say “10” over and over. Then Maddie asked him what 289-279 is, and, after thinking a minute, he just cracked up. So fun. Their enthusiasm is contagious. It makes me buy things I don’t believe in, like Nerf dart guns, marshmallows and boxed cereal. It’s hard sometimes to remember that playing monster chase on a busy city street actually annoys some people, or that the rest of the world doesn’t crack up at fart jokes.

Being a stay-at-home mom is supposed to be idyllic. You don’t have to “work,” at least not a “real” job. You “get to” hang with the kids. My wife commented how sweet it was to think of me “gardening” during the day. The reality is more like this. If the kids are away at school or camp, I run around grocery shopping or cleaning or attempting a myriad of other tasks that don’t get done well when the kids are around. When they are at home, I somehow don’t get a moment to myself, despite being ignored all the time. I decide to work in the yard while they play, and we get sidetracked picking blackberries in the alley behind the house.

“Come outside. We won’t ambush you. Promise!”

Then, they create a week’s worth of laundry in an hour having a water fight as I try to pull some weeds. They track mud all through the house because they are filling every single plastic cup they can find with water in order to booby trap the yard against me. It’s true, they did this. They are funny. I want them to have fun. I want to have fun, too. But, they don’t know when to stop, so that part requires yelling by me. They get a nice, warm bath while I change out of my wet clothes, wring out towels, start laundry, mop the floor, and try to get blackberry out of the carpet. I feel guilty for yelling, and have a mental argument about that. The yard work is left undone. Dinner is late, which sets off a whole other string of consequences. My life since kids is frankly way harder than a “real” job ever was. This job of raising kids and managing a household is real work… it’s as real as it gets, people. It’s true that my situation is a bit extreme for reasons that would pull this missive into tangent land, but the point remains solid. Something is profoundly missing between the reality and the perception of being a stay-at-home mom. Why is it so hard? And why didn’t it get much easier when the kids started school?

So, I wrote page after page trying to answer those questions before tossing it all out. Complaining too much is pollution, right kids? In the end, I’m struck with a heavy awareness, “OH. This is what women have been talking about for centuries.” The crux is two truths: One is that being a parent who “works” at home is hard the way holding a glass of water is hard. (This is the stress-as-a-glass-of-water analogy, easily Googled.) How hard it is to hold up a glass of water depends entirely on how long you have to hold it… and how many babies you have to hold at the same time. By babies, I mean actual babies, but also the physical, mental and emotional work that must be held with gentle discipline and focus. It really is like juggling babies: your children’s health, happiness, or ability to be a contributing, functional adult is at stake. Parents must be vigilant at all hours of the day, unpredictably. (You can’t ever really put the glass down.) Being alone with kids also means you’re the boss, your own manager, and your own critic, which is weird and lonely. None of the work is particularly hard, it’s the endurance that’s hard, and the lonely feedback loop. Also, the results won’t be visible for years to come.

The second truth is more changeable. Imagine if staying home to raise kids was more supported culturally? Why don’t care-giving parents get paychecks? Prestige? Imagine if the grit, confidence and skill society credits to a CEO was attributed to people who choose to stay home with kids? As it is, I have been feeling culturally invisible and irrelevant. The disrespect our society give caregivers has seeped into my psyche. No matter how well I balance a glass of water and juggle babies, it’s basically invisible work. Nobody notices that I cleaned fingerprints off all the door frames or that I just helped my kids solve an epic argument. I’m cranky to realize I need the recognition.
It’s also crazy making that no matter how much I do, there’s as much left undone. Overwhelm quickly snowballs. It’s scary how traditional my gender role is despite consciously rejecting gender roles. My wife works a lot, so I feel the responsibility to own everything else. We both think it should be easier than it is. As I struggle to keep all the babies in the air, I’m shocked to realize that rejecting so much of media-driven culture has not protected me from falling victim to holding myself to the standard of superhero. I am unhappy because I fail as a superhero! I can’t do it all! Moreover, as that logic goes, since I’m not trying to work outside the home, I’m not even qualified to be a sidekick. All of this self-deprecation and internal pressure would be easy enough to shove out of sight, except for the fact that my kids KNOW. They read it, take it on, and act it out. They reflect back the image of the failed superhero, and I CAN’T HAVE THAT.

This is why having kids is the hardest, most beautiful thing. They make you face yourself. They challenge us to become our best people because we are their models. Do I want my kids to be someone or to marry someone who holds him or herself to an impossible standard, then goes through life feeling like a failure? No? Then, I’d better change.

In this crazy, mixed up America, staying home with kids is a position of privilege and precious responsibility. I still deeply appreciate the opportunity, and wouldn’t change it for the world. I feel duped by how the job was misrepresented, but I will master this. Like Hamilton says, “I’m not throwing away my shot.” It’s time, once again, to fill the love buckets, even mine.