Motherhood takes the form of many hats, not all of them flattering or comfortable, but each uniquely necessary. Who’s looking after the mothers? We talk about “self care” because there’s no one but us to do it. And yes, sometimes the language of motherhood is martyrdom.
In the best of times, we are stretched. In a pandemic, we are are tattered. Mothers are the fabric, the thread, the glue. Most of what we do is not counted in the GDP so we are undervalued, discounted, and taken for granted on the world stage. Certainly America puts no value on skills that hold a family together. We love to wax about family values in political platitudes, but the policy never follows. There is a giant, fat exclamation point punctuating what ails us now, and truth be told, none of this is news. Access to high quality healthcare. Affordable, high quality childcare. Elder care. Equal pay. Workers rights. Increased minimum wage. The list goes on…and all are issues that overburden mothers and women in our society.
We are in a bootstraps world that wrongly values toughness over tenderness. We celebrate hubris over humility and greed over goodwill. This system cannot be upheld. It never was sustainable. Mothers will be at the front lines to topple this. It’s always the damn patriarchy. I have my hammer in hand ready to smash that shit down.
While we are toiling at home, mothers are wearing more hats that Bartholomew Cubbins. We are all mothers first and foremost, even above being ourselves most of the time (something I am working on changing, but damn, this part is hard). We are defined by the walls that surround us – mom, wife, boss, volunteer, gal pal, workout buddy, activist, gardener, artist. But during this pandemic, we are all these things at once within the same four walls. There is no blurring of lines and roles, no semblance of definition and boundaries. We are a kaleidoscope of roles, and sometimes the dance of colors isn’t so pretty. We feel the demands of all these roles at once, leaving us flailing and adding to our already harsh self judgement and ubiquitous fear of failing. On any given day, I feel like I’m half-assing everything. Little boosts my confidence, and each day ends in an uncomfortable veil of defeat.
There are good moments, and I do love this pause to give myself a chance to revisit my priorities and values. But overall, this is hard. I’m trying to hold it together for self-preservation. My teenage sons naturally social distance from us, and I know these days are exponentially harder for them during a time they should be in the throes of spring fever. We are at a juncture where I want to spend time with them and feel the comfort of their moppy heads in the crook of my arm, but they want to be holed up in their rooms facetiming or gaming with friends. It is an important connection for them to maintain. My role as mom has shifted, and I am not needed in the same ways, adding to the angst of the times. It really all started when I transitioned from Mommy to Mom years ago, but I feel it more keenly now. I’m still here as worrier in chief, head chef, chore sergeant, hapless entertainer, indulger, and resentful nag. Oh, and I’m still working full time, serving on two boards, and continuing my advocacy work to support families in crisis and champion vaccines. Demands from all facets of life do not wane, despite the circumstances.
Moms are taxed more than ever, emotionally, intellectually, and physically. We carry the weight and worry of our families, exacerbated for the sandwich generation, a club that so many Gen-Xers are in. We are on the cusp of shattering, well, I am anyway. And I ask, who’s looking after the mothers? I see you, and I know you see me too. In the end, we’ll take care of each other, adding to the tower of hats we already wear.