Happiness and Motherhood, Ha Ha Ha
I’ve been listening to Dave Grohl read his memoir, The Storyteller: Tales of Life & Music. In it, he recites this adage I hadn’t thought about recently:
You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Grohl is so effusive in celebrating his daughters that I’d not hesitate to tell him what I’m not always comfortable telling other people; my kids are the center of my universe.
I’ve been accused of (chided for?) putting their contentment above my own, and taking their unhappiness too much to heart. I have my tools and my mantras, and do my best not to actually take on their pain, but for real. How are you not devastated when the people you love most in the world are suffering?
Not that long ago American women were expected to put children and husband first, fading into a domesticity that only revealed itself when it wasn’t practiced to perfection. Then we got some rights—whoop-de-doo!—and have been seen as more or less fully human for the past 40 years.
Theoretically we have choices, but.
As humans we love to be right and are prey to the pendulum swing. So we’ve gone through the stage of “let your kids do their own thing, they’ll be fine” to attachment parenting. Now I guess we’re in some sort of hybrid state, in which moms are supposed to talk their children through every moment of their emotional lives and are concurrently shamed if they’re not maintaining an identity outside of motherhood.
It would be fun to write about the myriad ways in which mothers are shamed, if only for the cathartic release, but there’s plenty of time for that, as it may well come up in every conversation I have in the next twenty years.
“I am large, I contain multitudes.” So spoke Whitman, who was decidedly NOT trying to get dinner on the table while practicing perestroika with an unwilling spouse, disentangling squabbling kids and wondering if any of the homework packets had even been glanced at that day. Not to mention being simultaneously applauded and shamed for admitting to being “large” despite this being but a metaphor.
Well, I hear you, Walt. I, too, contain multitudes. Which allows me to be a fully realized human with personal desires and lofty objectives who nonetheless considers my children’s wellbeing central to my own.
My kids talk to me. Do they tell me everything? God, no. We’re not looking for Kardashian-level sharing in this family. But I’m privy to a lot of their fears and frustrations. They call me when they’re losing it. I’ve seen them experience anguish, and I’ve thought more than once that I’d cut off a limb if it would take away their pain. It’s easy to get caught in the bargaining stage of grief, although it’s clearly useless.
Surely most parents feel this way? They do their best to raise people who can take care of themselves, who are self-actualized and out there making mostly good decisions. And they let go, because at some point that child becomes an adult. But is it possible to watch a piece of yourself go through hell and not want to rush into the fire to save it?
I’ve spoken differently about my relationship to parenting in different rooms. Trying to be honest, but possibly pandering a little. I often get it wrong. The day I say I’ve been neglecting my business because I’ve been concentrating on my kids, another mom notes that she loves her kids but would never let them derail her on her path to glory. Ouch.
At another gathering I say that I don’t think I can take full credit for my kids being so terrific; they, after all, the ones who are out there accomplishing and achieving. When another mother takes pride in having raised her boy to be a feminist, I cave. “Wait!” I want to cry out, “I’ve done a great job too! I take it back! I AM responsible for how amazing they are!”
I always wanted kids. From the time I started having sex I knew that if I got pregnant I’d keep that baby. (I am very, very good at birth control.)
In my early twenties I cried as all my friends coupled up, leaving me perpetually single. When would I find someone to have babies with? I didn’t want to be an old mom. At 28 I decided that if I was still single at 30 I’d get myself pregnant. Four months before my 30th birthday I met a man who also craved kids, saving me, for a few years at least, from doing it all alone.
Now my kids, at 22 and 25, are well and truly adults. Do they still ask advice about everything from renewing their car registrations to picking out a health plan? Indeed they do. They still need a little coaching, but I’ve completed the raising stage. I’m looking forward to letting go of the family home, setting out on my own adventures.
Maybe I’ll fall in love again some day, and feel seen and adored in that hazy bliss of intimacy. But know this; everyone else plays third fiddle. The very center of my heart was occupied by tiny despots long ago, and their hold on that fortress has never weakened.
Does motherhood make you happy? Excuse me while my laughter turns to tears. I didn’t get into this field for the money, the glory or the happy moments. I did it because not having children was inconceivable. It’s impossible to calculate the proportion of worry, annoyance, fear, hilarity and joy of parenthood, never mind the soul-wrenching pain of seeing them miserable. But that’s not really the point.
Yes, my kids have made me happy. So, apparently, do dogs, expensive cars, vacations, and great salaries. I can’t see myself describing any of those as the center of my universe.
This is not some judgy diatribe against eschewing parenthood, nor is it a declaration that every parent should feel as I do. It’s me winding up for the pitch: My kids hold the biggest and shiniest key to my well-being, and if you think that’s a problem you’re welcome to hold your tongue.