I cannot tell you how pleased I was to read that while raising her daughter, Martha Stewart had repeatedly aimed a glue gun at the child’s head. This news tidbit came courtesy of Alexis Stewart’s scathing tell-all entitled Whateverland: Learning to Live Here. When I read stories like this, I am somehow reassured I wasn’t the worst mother in the world, perhaps just one of many cowering behind Martha Stewart, Joan Crawford, Kate Gosselin and animals that eat their young.
Martha’s daughter goes on to write that on Halloween “there were no costumes. There was no anything. We turned off all the lights and pretended we weren’t home.” Big deal, right? Lots of people do that every single year. The 46-year old author then whines “there was never anything to eat at my house.” Oh, come on! What about the papier-mache? What about Martha’s chow-chow dogs? Plump and fluffy, hon. Dig in!
And although I was pleased to discover dear Martha is less than perfect after all, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this very public outing of her barren pantry. In reading this kind of expose, moms everywhere cringe, wondering what our own offspring might reveal, were they to air our dirty laundry … literally.
For as long as I’ve been parenting, it’s always been my fault. Everything. Can’t find your keys? My fault. Misplace your driver’s license? My bad. Grinding your teeth? Mom’s to blame. Car won’t start? Oops! Forgot that I cut the fuel line last night, in my sleep. When did the anonymous “they” decide it’s always mom’s fault? Or, along with fat thighs, are women just hardwired to feel guilty when our children are in pain?
When did this tide of anti-Momdom begin? Probably in the early 20th century, when Sigmund Freud began his attack on motherhood. What did HIS mother think when Siggie concluded “mother love” was unmanly, detrimental and ultimately responsible for chapped lips, stale cereal and ill-fitting knickers? He might not have come up with the expression “it’s all mom’s fault,” but he certainly started the anti-mom train that sped up as it rolled on into the bulk of the 20th century. Soon, poor old mammy was blamed for everything.
In the 1940s, the pundits came up with the term “momism” to describe an epidemic of mothers who kept theirs sons tied to their apron strings. As the mother of two sons, I find myself wondering how this was accomplished. Is there a handbook I could get my hands on? A how-to guide? I can already see the writing on the wall and have entered into a pact with my BFF, who also has two sons. We have vowed to take care of each other in our old age, because let’s face it, young men these days wouldn’t recognize an apron string if it was tied to their nose and dipped in hot sauce.
In the 50s, full-time homemakers spent about 55 hours a week on domestic chores and got very little help from Daddy-o. Back then, Dr. Spock suggested Papa Bear might “occasionally change a diaper or give the baby a bottle of formula on Sunday,” but only once in a while when Mama Bear was on the verge of a bout with the cooking sherry or near hysteria.
When my boys were born in the early 90s, most moms were still working moms. I remember the first question out of people’s mouths in those days was “What do you do?” If you chose to stay at home with your children, you were a moron or a slacker. I often felt like a pariah when answering the “who-were-you-before-kids” question and soon came up with a laundry list of falsehoods: I was a lawyer, in PR, doing market research, running an organic co-op, muckraking, sitting on boards, selling cutting boards or leading a cult over in Newbury Park.
I had joined a “Young Moms” group in Thousand Oaks, CA, where we were living at the time. We were all new mothers, all pretty desperate to connect with other moms while still having an enviable past that included at least one stint as CEO of a large corporation. I was only a few years into being a mother and still felt unsure about practically everything I did. Twenty-some odd years later, I still sometimes feel the same way. Clueless, yet responsible for their happiness, their table manners, their height.
Both boys are getting ready to head back to college after a long winter break. Part of me sends them back eagerly, ready to say goodbye to the amplifier that’s been sitting on the fireplace for a month and the mess of socks, hats and detritus that’s been stuffed under various pieces of furniture. The other part of me sends them back into the world with hopes and worries and guilt. I hope they’re happy. I hope they remember to change their sheets at least once this semester. I hope they call.
My husband and I have spent a lot of time with them over the break. We’ve enjoyed many meals together, as well as the occasional movie. We’ve huddled on the sofa and talked about them when they couldn’t hear us. We’ve both ached for them when they’re faced with tough choices. But nowhere in our shared dialogue was there one iota of "guilt" emanating from Papa Bear. Concern? Yes. Worry? Of course. But guilt? Nope. That seems to be the provenance of motherhood … or is it just me?
Every parent wants the best and the brightest for their children, but is it just mothers that feel guilty when things go awry for their kids? Is Martha lounging in a cashmere robe, ruing her daughter’s remarks? My robe is terrycloth, but I do rue from time to time, as I’m sure Martha must. It goes with the territory. And although I’ve never aimed a glue gun at my sons’ heads, I have waggled a wooden spoon once or twice.
I guess the moral to this story is, if you’re famous, don’t aim a weapon of adhesion at your offspring lest they turn around and nail YOU to a wall. For the rest of us, Mom’s the word.
