I was perusing the gossip magazines while going through the grocery queue, the ones you only read when you’re stuck in line (and at the hairdressers). You feel really guilty about it too, because you know you’ve actually killed a few brain cells digesting the news of so-and-so’s tummy tuck or some star’s illegitimate son that looks like Chewbacca and has more tattoos than skin. This isn’t news. This is posturing and claptrap and made up stories about alien babies.
It is fun to look at, I will admit.
Todays rag had five Mommy stars gracing the front, with GRADES next to them. The headline asked us “Who’s Making the Grade?” There was J-Lo, pulling her daughters ponytail and the daughters head arching back, a look of annoyance on both their faces. D- we are told, with total certainty. Some blond country star was next, with a A+, her smiling happy face bouncing a rosy-cheeked toddler on her knee. The list went on as the editors happily assigned them each a letter for their efforts. But honestly, as a mother? This is too much to take. Did J-Lo just save her kid from running out into the street, a hair away from jam-dom by a fast-moving, gold-plated SUV? Maybe, I wasn’t there. Maybe her daughter just lipped off to such a degree that J Lo wanted to take her head off clean, but having no real weapon at hand, just gave her a quick jerk and the old “listen here, you…” while hissing under her breath? This one happens too, even to good mothers. Good mothers driven to the edge by hell-bent hormones and severe senses of entitlement. It happens, people. If you haven’t been there, don’t judge. You may well get there one day. The country star? She’s smiling because she just had a luxurious day at the spa, and her nanny has just handed her the baby for her allotted 1.2 hours of the day. Maybe, right? Even when you think you are seeing the full picture, you aren’t.
A dear English friend of mine told me a story that I will relay you now, just in case you were thinking of judging a mother today. She lived up a steep flight of stairs and was, for the moment, trapped in her apartment with a three-year old and a one year old, down with a debilitating back issue that kept her from standing upright. At all. For months. I’ll give you a moment to wrap your head around what that might be like.
See? It was bad, really bad. She scuttled around on the floor like a stick insect, her two kids none the wary, as her boyfriend left her items on a low table that would help everyone while he was gone. Not only was she in pain, she was still feeding everyone, changing diapers, and working from home. At this particular moment in her own version of hell, Little Baby was running around sans diaper, and she was looking for a new one. Realizing they were all up in a high place, she started to panic. She especially started to panic as the baby started to engage in a “squatting” position. Just then…a slight rap on the door, unmistakably her boyfriends tap. Thinking fast, she inched herself over, putting out her hands in a position of upwards gratitude, and waited for it to hit. “Come in!” She yelled, and realizing the craziness of the situation, laughed to herself, speaking aloud. “Look at this! I am a genius! It’s never even going to hit the floor! How did I manage tha..” and she looked up to see two very stunned, suit wearing, bible toting Jehovah’s witness’.
‘Maybe we should come back later,” they said, slowly backing away.
In their minds? D-. What was this woman doing? In my mind? A+. That is some fast thinking, sister. But maybe you had to have been there. Oh I know, MAYBE YOU HAVE TO BE THE MOTHER TO KNOW WHAT IS REALLY HAPPENING.
I know, I know, we all judge at times. And there are truly horrible parents out there, ones that need to have child services called. But we live in a culture of judgment, and we all fall into it to make ourselves feel better about our own hodgepodge parenting. But a grade? Give me a break. I can be a great mom, and I can be a horrible mom, and I don’t always do what is best or right or teachable, sometimes opting for the time-saving or nag-slinging route. I am good, bad, and everything in between, probably like most mothers. Give us all a C, and find something better to talk about, like alien babies.