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What Do You Mean I'm Sensitive?
After one recent, long morning and early afternoon full of whining and requests -- mostly by my children -- I put them both in bed for naps and got out my yoga mat. I opened the back door and let the fresh air come inside and listened to the soft breeze blowing the trees in my backyard. The perfect setup to focus on my long-neglected self, my aging bones and sad little bits of muscle. A rare escape. I started my exercise video.
And then, five minutes in, standing in mountain pose, all in touch with the strength of my aura, I heard the narrator's voice say, "Women are sickly beings."
I'm sorry, I'm what? I'm sickly? Well, that seems an awfully rude thing to say to a woman who paid $12.99 for your DVD, I thought. Is this a new kind of yoga, some newfangled reverse-motivation practice favored by angry monks who train boxers in the Siberian Mountains? "You can't win! Your downward-facing dog is the worst I've ever seen! You'll never learn to relax with that kind of form! Stress is going to beat you down until you can't feel your toes!"
Surely not. I rewound the video. "Women are cyclical beings."
Oh.
I love being a mom. I really do. The hugs, the kisses, the ridiculously fresh outlook on life that kids have. But along with the love, I've acquired a sensitivity monitor that works overtime, and usually in response to nothing much at all.
I'm an odd contrast between heavyweight and featherweight, between fight and flight. For my girls, I'm certain there is nothing I wouldn't do, no punch I'd pull, no defense I wouldn't run to. When it's just me and them, I am unquestionably right. I am even more than that: I am unassailable. My methods are flawless.
But when it's just me and a complete stranger and a bad day and an ill-timed remark ... well, that's a different story. Rationally, for example, I know that the clerk at Babies R Us didn't mean to open a can of mothering self-esteem worms when she asked me if my 3-year-old was still in diapers. Nonetheless, every so often for the rest of the day, I felt a nagging pull inside me. The one that said, "Beth, get it together. You know you're just lazy, dreading the chore of having to take her into public restrooms, the work of it all. Do it, already."
I could give you other examples, but they go pretty much the same as the one above. (Them: "Have a nice day, ma'am." Me: "What do you mean she should be crawling by now?")
I'm not entirely sure if the term "Mommy Wars" applies to stay-at-home moms vs. working moms, breastfeeding moms vs. bottle-feeding moms, or everything and anything under the sun. I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to have chosen a side by now. What I do know is that, for me -- and I suspect, for most of the warring factions out there -- the only real conflict in motherhood lives within us. At its most weak, my sensitivity monitor likes to compare and contrast mothering styles and spark a battle of second-guessing that, thankfully, comes to a rational and practical end right about the time I have to remove a toddler from the top of a teetering, makeshift tower. Action trumps theorizing.
Mothers aren't sensitive for nothing. It's precisely what makes us good at our jobs. I could badmouth the clerk for making small talk that might have a hint of judgment behind it, or I could ask myself why it bothered me. The truth is, I already was vexed by our lack of potty training success. I have learned to see these little self-esteem battles I have as a vigilance over my own actions, a quality inspection of my deeds, of how I know whether my job performance is up to par.
I take no pleasure in the few remarks that bother me, which can amount to a really tough day at the office. But I do take comfort in the thousands that my Inner Critic never even notices. That's called progress. Growth and confidence. Feeling the strength of my aura, if you will ... even if it is a bit sickly from time to time.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at Mother Bunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
After one recent, long morning and early afternoon full of whining and requests -- mostly by my children -- I put them both in bed for naps and got out my yoga mat. I opened the back door and let the fresh air come inside and listened to the soft breeze blowing the trees in my backyard. The perfect setup to focus on my long-neglected self, my aging bones and sad little bits of muscle. A rare escape. I started my exercise video.
And then, five minutes in, standing in mountain pose, all in touch with the strength of my aura, I heard the narrator's voice say, "Women are sickly beings."
I'm sorry, I'm what? I'm sickly? Well, that seems an awfully rude thing to say to a woman who paid $12.99 for your DVD, I thought. Is this a new kind of yoga, some newfangled reverse-motivation practice favored by angry monks who train boxers in the Siberian Mountains? "You can't win! Your downward-facing dog is the worst I've ever seen! You'll never learn to relax with that kind of form! Stress is going to beat you down until you can't feel your toes!"
Surely not. I rewound the video. "Women are cyclical beings."
Oh.
I love being a mom. I really do. The hugs, the kisses, the ridiculously fresh outlook on life that kids have. But along with the love, I've acquired a sensitivity monitor that works overtime, and usually in response to nothing much at all.
I'm an odd contrast between heavyweight and featherweight, between fight and flight. For my girls, I'm certain there is nothing I wouldn't do, no punch I'd pull, no defense I wouldn't run to. When it's just me and them, I am unquestionably right. I am even more than that: I am unassailable. My methods are flawless.
But when it's just me and a complete stranger and a bad day and an ill-timed remark ... well, that's a different story. Rationally, for example, I know that the clerk at Babies R Us didn't mean to open a can of mothering self-esteem worms when she asked me if my 3-year-old was still in diapers. Nonetheless, every so often for the rest of the day, I felt a nagging pull inside me. The one that said, "Beth, get it together. You know you're just lazy, dreading the chore of having to take her into public restrooms, the work of it all. Do it, already."
I could give you other examples, but they go pretty much the same as the one above. (Them: "Have a nice day, ma'am." Me: "What do you mean she should be crawling by now?")
I'm not entirely sure if the term "Mommy Wars" applies to stay-at-home moms vs. working moms, breastfeeding moms vs. bottle-feeding moms, or everything and anything under the sun. I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to have chosen a side by now. What I do know is that, for me -- and I suspect, for most of the warring factions out there -- the only real conflict in motherhood lives within us. At its most weak, my sensitivity monitor likes to compare and contrast mothering styles and spark a battle of second-guessing that, thankfully, comes to a rational and practical end right about the time I have to remove a toddler from the top of a teetering, makeshift tower. Action trumps theorizing.
Mothers aren't sensitive for nothing. It's precisely what makes us good at our jobs. I could badmouth the clerk for making small talk that might have a hint of judgment behind it, or I could ask myself why it bothered me. The truth is, I already was vexed by our lack of potty training success. I have learned to see these little self-esteem battles I have as a vigilance over my own actions, a quality inspection of my deeds, of how I know whether my job performance is up to par.
I take no pleasure in the few remarks that bother me, which can amount to a really tough day at the office. But I do take comfort in the thousands that my Inner Critic never even notices. That's called progress. Growth and confidence. Feeling the strength of my aura, if you will ... even if it is a bit sickly from time to time.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at Mother Bunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
Comments
You are so right, Beth! However, I still think that the cashier at Jo-Ann's who said, "Any day now?" when I was 6 months pregnant INTENDED to convey that I was HUGE. When I told her no, she diplomatically followed up with, "Are you having twins?"
Sometimes we are not being overly sensitive. People are just being rude!
If it makes you feel any better, my kids were both over 3 when they were potty trained. And I am proud to say that at 12 1/2 and 15 (yesterday, as a matter of fact) they don't even wear pull-ups at night!
"And I am proud to say that at 12 1/2 and 15 (yesterday, as a matter of fact) they don't even wear pull-ups at night!"
Hee hee. Thanks, Di. That is some measure of comfort.
Finally, mom-sensitivity as an evolutionary adaptation that makes sense! I remember when my first born was about a year old and a good friend of mine, ready to give birth for her first time, asked me, "so what's it really like to be a mom?" I remember telling her that I was surprised at how viciously protective I felt, like a mother bear who would attack and kill anyone that remotely seemed a threat. This was a new, an unexpected, and bizarre emotion I now had.
My second guessing and comparing mothering styles drives me crazy and yet I still do it. I guess it's because I want to be the best mother I can be, but at some point, I just have to trust myself. I'm still working on that.
Don't worry about the potty training. My son was over 3 before he decided he was ready to be potty trained. I was a bit stressed about has lack of interest before that. But then a friend rightly pointed out that it doesn't matter if your kid is in diapers or underwear, you still have to wipe your kid's tail.
When I took Maya in for her 2-year-old checkup, my pediatrician asked if she had shown any interest in potty training. "Some," I said, "but I'm not interested in it. I'm going to wait awhile." He, being a father of two sons, said that was perfectly fine.
I know exactly what you mean about your sensitivity monitor. For me, it's constantly being on guard about being too judgmental -- of others and myself. It is so hard to just let go and accept where you are and who you are (I'm referring to mothering but I think it applies to everything!)
I'm probably being a bit oblique here but I think it's part of it is the "over-thinking" that comes with being a mother.
For instance, I have to think for myself as well as for two others. I try to anticipate forward and reflect backwards. To make decisions, I have to integrate what I feel & observe with what I know. I don't have much of a sample, so I observe others and try to place where we are to the "norm." It's a continual assessment & sorting process.
And the stakes are high!