Every time a reel pops up in my social media feed showing a beleaguered and exhausted mother trying to calm a child, my heart breaks a little. By now, it must be frosted over with cracks from all the times I’ve involuntarily witnessed such vulnerability and struggle. To clarify, I’m not talking about little brats throwing a tantrum because they want a second lollipop or the window seat on the plane, but rather about nonverbal youngsters having a public meltdown.
“The child spits and lashes out at her, but she calms him while staying composed. She doesn’t get frustrated. But how does she really feel? Does she ever wish the child she cuddles were different or even didn’t exist?”
I shoo the thoughts away as if they were sinister crows.
“No. She doesn’t. She’s a mother, and mothers aren’t allowed to have thoughts like these,” I try to convince myself.
Yet as a mother who has been through some pretty intense stuff with my children, I know we suppress murky “thought crimes” that linger in the darkest folds of our minds. Things like, “I wish they’d never been born. If I could turn back the clock… If only I had never met their father…”
Over time, I became so adept at squashing them that they hardly ever dared to peek. And I never let them surface in public. Not in front of other people. Because I am a mother, and well, mothers aren’t allowed to have such thoughts. Right?
Readers of Orwell’s “1984″ recall the Thought Police, an agency responsible for monitoring and punishing anyone with rebellious thoughts against the ruling party. In my case, I acted as my own Thought Police, either curbing my opinions to ensure they aligned with societal norms and expectations or outright banishing them. Yet the bitter sediment of guilt persists, rising strongly from my maternal side.
“How could I! I didn’t really mean it…”
Yet deep down, I knew the thought existed and gave me a momentary sense of release.
Thus, my guilt deepened.
“I’m a horrible mother! Mothers are selfless, nurturing, and loving, not monsters who harbor such dark views.”
Like crows, the thoughts would fly away for a while, and then, when I least expected them, they’d return—stronger, blacker, and more insistent than ever. The internal conflict between my emotions and my perception of motherhood used to consume me.
From my rare conversations with female friends about these topics, I’ve learned that mothers fear sharing these feelings because, since time immemorial, speaking against the beauty of motherhood, or even hinting at regret, has been met with judgment and condemnation. Before the advent of social media and our oversharing of photos of every meal we eat and every place we visit, the worst we got were hushed comments behind our backs or reproachful stares. Now it’s a full-scale Twitter and Instagram lynching, plus 40-second stoning video clips on TikTok.
“If you didn’t have what it takes to be a mother, you shouldn’t have had children in the first place!”
“When you’re old, I hope your children put you in a nursing home!”
And then there is also the ever-present question in any small or large kiddie disaster, from a lost toy to teen drug use: “Well, where was the mother???”
To all of them, I want to say, “I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to raise a child. I didn’t have kids to look after me when I’m old. And why don’t you ask about where the FATHER was?”
Of course, I keep it all to myself because it would only invite a deluge of unsolicited advice from people who have no idea what it’s like to walk in a mother’s shoes—shoes that are sometimes simply too big for us. Not because we can’t cope, but because the burden of motherhood is sometimes overwhelming and lonely.
It’s important to remember that every mother’s journey is unique and deserves respect, regardless of whether others understand it. The pressure to always appear happy and fulfilled as a parent can be devastating, leaving many of us to suffer in silence. It took me years to unburden myself to a friend, but even then I asked her to keep it to herself.
I don’t have a child with any physical or mental problems or an incurable disease. My children are healthy, beautiful, successful, charming, and loved. But sometimes they are just horrible. Something went wrong at work? Their current boyfriend or girlfriend is getting on their nerves? Mother will listen and absorb some of their frustration. I try to remind myself that their behavior is not a reflection of my parenting but rather of their temperament.
As a mother, I have been a punching bag for my kids since I can remember. It is usually manageable when they are little, as one can send them to their room or restrict their privileges, but now that they are adults, the verbal skirmishes often end in months of silence on both sides.
Just like in the famous nursery rhyme about the little girl with a little curl, “Right in the middle of her forehead,” when kids are good, they “are very, very good, but when they are bad, they are horrid!”
But even when they are at their “horridest,” I would give up my left kidney and my cornea for them. And if someone asked me why, I’d shrug and say, “Because I’m their mother!”
There are days when most mothers would like to pack their bags, slam the door, and hit the road, Jack. But we can’t. We are not allowed. We must love. Our kids are not a job we can resign from or a partner we can leave behind. We stay and work through the problems. Remember, we are their rock, their haven, and their biggest supporter, even when they hammer at the rock, chipping away pieces of our hearts. And then throw them into the bin!
I know because I did it to my own mother! Not Dad, because he didn’t scold and was fun to be with. He took me fishing and gave me sweets after bedtime, even though he knew it caused tooth decay! And once, when I broke a window while playing badminton in the apartment, all he said was, “Just wait until your mum comes home!”
So there! What goes around comes around!
This was written by our contributing writer, J.B. Polk.
Cover Image Source: Pexels, Fernanda De Freitas
All other images were provided by our writer, J.B. Polk.
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