Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) by Jill Smokler Read Free Book Online Page A

head. I’m a mother, a wife, and my own person, but it’s rare that I am satisfied with my performance in one area, let alone all three. My failures seem so obvious—I assume everyone must think the same of me. Strangely, though, every time I’ve ever voiced these feelings, I’ve been told the same thing: I’m too hard on myself. I’m my own worst critic.
    This, my friends, is one of the most pervasive and pernicious lies of motherhood. I’ve said it, you’ve said it, and it’s just plain bullshit.
    There is nobody harder on a mom than her fellow mother. It starts bright and early with pregnancy. As if the symptoms you’re suffering weren’t bad enough, when you are expecting, everyone’s mission becomes to knock you down. Not literally, of course, because that would be attempted manslaughter, but they will try to knock you down nonetheless. They will insult your appearance, question your choice of lunch meat, and casually note just how much weight you have gained.
    Once the baby comes, it’s like you’ve signed on a dotted line agreeing to put every decision you make into the public domain for open critique. Your baby’s name, your decision to breastfeed or not to breastfeed, the sleep habits you’re enforcing . . . everything is simply an opportunity for people to stick their noses in your business and judge away like it’s a spectator sport.
    And that’s just what we say to each other’s faces. Thebehind-the-back talk is even harsher. But because we’re mothers, we find a way to mask our judgment in feigned concern and helpfulness.
    We once lived in a neighborhood where, on the first night under our new roof, the queen bee of the subdivision gave us an illustrated list (I kid you not) of our surrounding neighbors. Each house had a little notation next to their name: #2703 hosts the Easter egg hunts and fights loudly; #2708 are going through a divorce, but it’s amicable; #2714 babysits, has a Fourth of July bash, but passed lice around to the whole Girl Scout troop. As she walked in with her tray of brownies and neon nails, I wondered what notes she was taking at my place. #2601: Appears not to have showered in three days, bottle-feeds her infant, and lets the older one watch too much TV—SHITTY MOTHER, her note likely screamed.
    Unfortunately, the critiquing doesn’t end with other mothers. Kids can be just as brutal, especially our own. I’ll be innocently showering first thing in the morning when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump.
    Once I get out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. “What’s that purple squiggle, Mommy?” A spider vein, I sigh. “That one, too?” Yes, that one,too, honey. “Over here, too?” Yes, my darling, that’s what they’re called. Let’s move on.
    â€œOkay. What’s this?”
    It’s a stretch mark. That’s a scar. That’s a vein. That’s cellulite. That’s hair. That’s a wrinkle. That’s a bruise. That’s . . . crap . . . what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, all right?
    Speaking of getting dressed, Lily, my child who scoffs at J.Crew’s Crewcuts and lusts over the Justice catalog, frequently greets me with equally colorful commentary on my clothes. She tells me my clothes don’t match, my clothes make me look “flat,” or the color of my sweater is