I'm on my way to the tearoom the other day to heat up my quinoa goddess bowl … actually that's a lie. I'd forgotten my lunch in the rush to get to school, despite the fact that I'm always sensible enough to pack lunches the night before (Aside: thankfully the kids were switched on enough to remember to get theirs out of the fridge and were exceptionally well fed that day.) I was headed to the tearoom for a packet of cheese and onion chips (dairy and vegetables, a healthy choice) … when I spied an issue of Time magazine with a lovely photo of a mother and baby on the cover … The Goddess Myth, the headline ran: How a vision of perfect motherhood hurts mums.
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Oh god yes.
So I stole it, and stole a few minutes to read it while I dropped chip crumbs all over my keyboard and felt guilty for doing so on company time. Research maybe. Like all those stolen moments I spend watching Punkee recaps of The Bachelorette.
Basically, the article said, new mothers are drowning under a wave called "The Goddess Myth". You know, that mythical, mystical mother, who delivers vaginally, without the help of drugs, or perhaps even a doctor, maybe going with a doula in her own loungeroom in a birthing tub, a mother who then breastfeeds exclusively, moves on to organic mush, always looking radiant and as gorgeous as she ever did, all the time meeting the demands of her baby, her partner, extended family, heck even her workplace. And posts on social media about it every five minutes.
You know the one.
Time did a survey of 913 new mothers for the article and half had experienced feelings of regret, shame, guilt or anger surrounding their birthing experience. More than 70 per cent felt pressured to do things a certain way. Author Claire Howorth found many mothers struggled with the idea that it was okay to do what was best for them when there were so many goddesses on social media supposedly living these mythical lives, making the rest of us feel bad.
"Motherhood in the connected era doesn't have to be dominated by any myth," she writes. "Mums have to stick together even as we walk our separate paths.
"We have to talk about our failures and realise there are no failures."
Yes I know. But there have been so many days, recently, where I feel like a big fat failure.
At the end of the day, new motherhood was the easy bit. You might think you're doing the wrong thing having a C-section, or feeding your baby formula, miserable about your tummy that hasn't bounced back.
But I figure if you get your kids to the teenage years and they're pleasant enough children in the company of others, you've done everything right. Even if your tummy still looks like it did postpartum. There are more important things to worry about now.
I had this dream the other night. I woke up in a cold sweat. Completely different from all the nights I wake up in a hot sweat, thank you peri-menopause. This dream completely threw me.
I was driving my car, the kids were in the backseat, we were headed down a road not unlike the Kings Highway that goes over the Clyde, twisting, precarious. And then my lights went out. It was completely black. I had no idea where I was going, what direction to steer in, whether I was about to send us all plunging over a cliff into the darkness. But I had to keep driving, I had to get the kids to where they wanted to go. It was up to me. I was all alone behind the steering wheel.
Interpret that mystical goddesses.
All I knew is that I couldn't fail my children.
I know it didn't really harm them, when, as babies, I might have left them in a wet nappy for too long, or opened another jar of baby food, because I was too tired to cook them organic steamed sweet potato after I'd had a gruelling day at work myself, guilty enough that they'd been in childcare for seven long hours.
I worry more about failing them now. A million times more. Now they are mini-adults with minds and opinions and values and morals of their own, how are they viewing me? What suckling baby ever looked up at his mother and thought, put me on your breast woman, this bottle is not for me.
I know I'm not a total failure. I'd like my kids even if I wasn't their mother. Other people, even those who aren't related to them, think they're both wonderful. And they are.
But I wonder why I'm so plagued with feelings of guilt and remorse, why some days I am enveloped by this great blanket of aloneness, why some days I am truly unsure if I can be the mother they deserve, the mother they need me to be.
Perhaps I should just give myself a good uppercut and get on with it. My chin is bruised by the number of times where I've had to do that in recent years.
But just know, dear mother, however old your children are, is that you are a goddess no matter how dark the road you're travelling on is. Your children are your shining light and they will make sure you get to where you need to go.
