The Ghost of Mothers Past

When my grandmother was growing up women could be nurses. That is, until they were married. Then they could “be” nothing—just wives and mothers. I seriously doubt her mother was presented with even that many options.

When my mom had reached kindergarten, and the teacher asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, women's "choices" had expanded to include secretary or teacher.

By the time I came along however, countless women, my grandmothers included, had put up one hell of a fight—ensuring that I, unlike them, would have the freedom to dream. Success, education, and equal treatment were mine for the taking.

When I started school I had already determined to become a Prima-Ballerina. And maybe an astronaut, oo ooh, and then I'd be a dentist. And no one ever discouraged me. My parents smiled “You can do it.” My teacher flashed me two thumbs-up.

My mom often used to play a song called “You Can Be Anything” for my sisters and me. We’d dress-up and dance around the house, envisioning all the ways we’d someday change the world. I remember it well. In fact, I play the same song for my own children now.

“You can be a doctor, a scientist or a professor
(but you’ll have to go to school)
Be a winning athlete, but only if you do your best, sir
(and follow all the rules)
You can work for a dream ‘til it comes true
(just get in there and persevere)
You can even be president, yes you! (Someone else did it just last year)
Set a high high goal you’ve nothing to lose, you can be anything you choose!”

Sadly, though not surprisingly, no where do the lyrics persuade you to “Stay home and vacuum all day, while a roast stews in the oven, and a baby vomits on your shoulder." They do not say, “Your hubby will bring home the bacon.”

I grew up thinking I had every choice in the world. But I guess no one ever considered that what I might choose, above all else, would be to go back to the kitchen. Take my shoes off, get pregnant, and decide to spend my young days changing endless poopy diapers, making playdoh and washing crayon off the walls.

ERRRRR: Wrong Answer.

When I announced the birth of my first child, my mother began to cry. (Not because she was happy.) By the time I became pregnant with my third I dreaded the call I knew I’d eventually have to make. “I was already having a bad day,” she said. “I’ll have to talk to you about this later.” (i.e. This mistake will someday sink you so far under that you’ll never fight your way out of your black-hole of endless despair. How could you be so stupid?) She didn’t speak to me for nearly two months.

“Are you planning on going back to school anytime soon?” This is invariably the first question my grandmother asks whenever we talk on the phone. Which is rare—go figure.

So I second guess myself. I wonder, should I feel guilty? Is it not enough to be “just a mom?” This must be a big slap in the face to women who worked very hard so that I didn't have to be here. Right? I mean, how can I tell them, those very women who changed history for me, that this is how I accept their gift? The gift of choice?

Not only do I choose to be a stay-at-home mom, I’ve got the audacity to admit I know I’m good at it. No matter how hard it gets, or how tired I am, I know (way down deep in there somewhere) that I am a great parent. Seriously, I rock. Ok, so I’ll admit I’m as guilty as the next mom when it comes to flaunting my flaws now and then. As one blogger put it-- Claiming to be bad parents is the new “I’m fat” for even the thinnest of women.

Sometimes we watch all six hours of “Nick Jr” before we get around to eating breakfast. Bad Mommy.

And sometimes I let the kids dump Cap’n Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, and Cookie Crisp in a bowl, douse it with milk and call the sugar-fest “dinner.” Bad Mommy.

I’m tired of sitting through endless playgroups with other mothers lamenting the fact that we all suck. I’m through pretending I don’t have a clue. Sure I come across obstacles now and then (remember Jensie’s serial scissor spree?) When faced with a challenge, I don’t rush to Google the answer or read countless self-help books before I decide I was right all along. I trust my instincts and listen to my heart. Does admitting this make me sound cocky, arrogant, or just plain rude? I sure hope not. I work hard to be a good mother. I’ve earned the right to be confident.

My joy in motherhood will not be stifled. When we get right down to it, isn’t that what women’s lib. is all about? The right to pursue those things we find most fulfilling? I think so. I pray I do not disappoint my mother. Or her mother. Or all the mothers that came before me. I want to "do them proud." But they promised I could be anything I want to be. And I want to be a mom.

(Written February 20, 2008)