the other day when a friend nonchalantly called me a “supermom” and i cringed nice and tight and long, something sort of dawned on me. in fact, it actually made me flash back to that old “cringe” episode of this american life when ira glass, in his lovely ira glass kind of way, says:
“A cringe is basically the human body cowering in fear—for an instant. And one of the most fearsome, stressful things we can encounter—is the thought that we are not who we think we are. The thought that the world sees us differently than we see ourselves.”
obviously, i cringed because, in my mind, i am by no means a supermom. what does that even mean, i wondered after the intense physical reaction? what if i actually am a supermom, under the snarky definition that our society doles out this term (and don’t tell me it’s not snarky. cause it is. no one says “supermom” and truly means it nicely or respectfully)? after my friend called me this, i actually wanted to take a shower.
i guess, when i think about it, there’s nothing innately wrong with being a “supermom” {{gag}}, but it’s just not how i see myself. i am so ridiculously and outwardly flawed and imperfect and flailing, how can it be? i only “came to” about a month ago and realized that i have been home with leo since his birth. i hadn’t even really realized it. i guess it’s because i work at home, so it kind of felt like i was going to work. but i wasn’t. and i was like *kapow* “i have taken care of a toddler and worked at home and brought in an income every day for over 17 months without, until recently, any childcare.” when did this happen? how the hell do i do that? i’m not even mentally or physically capable of such things. i mean, it wasn’t really “the plan.” i had no plan. the plan was kind of always walk forward until you hit a brick wall. and then when you hit a brick wall, stop, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and walk until you hit the next one. oh wow! no wonder things have felt so hard.
oh god, i might be a supermom.
if i were truly a supermom, though, wouldn’t my house be cleaner? wouldn’t i cook something every now and again? wouldn’t i do a lot more active parenting (crafts! story time! field trips!)? wouldn’t i have a whole lot less guilt about the fact that i do only what is absolutely necessary and required to get by when it comes to day-to-day living, parenting hours, volunteering at the school, and so on? wouldn’t i spend a lot more time (or any time) fine tuning and perfecting my actual “momhood”? proving my “momhood” to the world!
or am i a supermom because i even consider these things in the first place?
the alky in me, of course, spins viciously on this kind of analysis. this is when my natural inclination is to jet off by myself to a dirty wreck of a hotel room in another city—with lots and lots vodka in tow—and never look back. just to prove what i’m not. which is perfect, i suppose. and i guess i desire to go as far as i can from perfect just to prove it. just to prove that it’s not so easy to keep it all together. not so easy to be *me*. no matter how it looks. and yes, i realize how crazy (and self-obsessed) this is. obviously, i don’t really want to do any of this. but this just goes to show you how deeply the cringe goes. how deeply fearful i am of being seen differently than i see myself. cause being seen (and loved) for who i really am is kind of, uh, *every-frickin-thing*.
this is one of the main reasons, in fact, that i quit drinking. it took me about 16 or 18 years to figure out, but when i drank (and drank and drank and drank), that fact didn’t change. with every sip, i still felt confused and convoluted and DIFFERENT against the backdrop of the world. i still felt misunderstood. i tried even harder, and with far less accuracy, to be understood (and loved), but, on top of it all, then i couldn’t see the world clearly either. everything became a bit of a murky mess. inwardly and outwardly.
oh god. here i am right in the middle of another long-winded self analysis and wondering what the hell i was thinking starting this whole thing. pondering the delete button… trying to figure out where to go from here… how the hell do i get out of this one? this is a blog, for god’s sake. miracles of the mind and self do not have to happen here.
well, since i started off with a this american life sampling, then maybe i can simply end this little mental saga the way those lovely radio stories often end. everyone the same at the end of the story as they were at the beginning. no one learns anything. no one changes. and we’re only left to wonder, “hmmm, what do you make of that? what do you make of that woman who’s so deathly afraid of being labeled a supermom that she cannot just give you the light little blog post about birds or cookies you were searching for when you googled the term ’supermom’?”
:: inspiring happy
bi-rite creamery • hulu • she & him • toodledo • teateatea
:: wanting
tree cups • kids & birds • love you, m!
:: watching & reading
this post • the hills (season 3) • all the science experiment rejects here
absolutely love every last *super* part of you
Maybe, just maybe, every good mom, every mom who (fairly) consistently tries, who doesn’t beat up her kids or abandon them, is super.
haha – I loved the post, even though I don’t get the American Life bits.
Maybe its because when we just do because we have to, it works so much better than if we contemplate?
just to pronounce, first, my unabashed support of your whole parental operation: there’s no such fucking thing as a supermom. Our society is OBSESSED with being the best at things. Whether that’s playing the violin, or being a mom. So my theory is this: whenever anyone uses that GD term (and yes, always only snarky), they are doing it because they look at someone else and see all the things they are NOT. This makes them feel inferior, and they must resort to name calling so they can feel better about all the ways in which they fail.
And the sick truth is: they haven’t failed! Everyone has their own priorities, and ways of being! NO one is right, or wrong or the best (as long as you are not beating your kids, or starving them, of course). But the pressures our society places on us are hard to get past. So we do feel like failures. And we do compare. And aren’t nice.
Secondly: stay-at-home or no (mom, or no, even), you are, right now, doing the thing you really wanted to do, and very well, I might add.
I only have one word left for you…memoir.
Wait a minute, wait a minute — super to me means “special” — and if we’re all super than none of us is (are? grammatica?) super. Know what I mean?
This is from a slacker mom, by the way, who does think you’re super because you’ve reproduced twice AND manage to work from home. And you take lovely pictures and don’t drink when you’ve had a bad day. Or a good day.
I got called supermom when a man overhead me talking with Jasper about the different parts of black holes (on the way home from the planetarium). I’m ashamed to admit it, but it felt good and kind of made up for all the mornings spent in my pjs, tepid coffee in hand.
Maybe supermom means exceeding what you thought you were capable of doing?
I totally get why being called a supermom is threatening and feels oppressive. And yet, I also totally understand what your friend sees and admires — and its clear from the comments above and everyday that I’m not alone. So, I honor your right to disown the title on the basis of hostile cultural undertones, but really, you are inspiring — as a mom, as a writer, as a person, and as a recovering “alky.” Not because you’re always getting every thing just right (though, that’s a matter of interpretation, of course), but because you’re doing it every single day. I’m with PWADJ: memoir.
I want to write so much but I’ll just say “ditto” to Phoebe’s comment.
Maybe it’s easier to think less of ourselves, to think ourselves flawed and imperfect? Once you introduce terms like “supermom”, there’s a tendency to think you need to work harder and harder to maintain this status. There’s a lot less pressure when you think of yourself as less. We should just be who we are. Stop comparing ourselves to others. And somehow (and this is the hard part) learn to be happy with who we are and what we’re doing right now.
awwww, i love you guys. you’re all so smart and great and pretty damn super! thank you.