The Mommy Wars

“They are so … fundamentalist!” Joanne grinned wickedly. “Fundamentalist mothers.”

I laughed. Spirit is always sexy.

“There’s no need to be so dramatic. Just calm down,” I said. 

“Yeah, calm down. It always works, doesn’t it? Telling a woman to calm down,” she snorted.

With her little daughter in the first grade, we’re trying to fit into the school community. I volunteer every week to help out teachers by listening to children practicing their reading. We made polite chitchat at drop-off and pick-up. We get involved in any extra activity, and I did canteen duty every month. But Joanne still felt that something is wrong. A slight turn of a head. An oblique smile. A delicate nod like ‘Oh, you’re a career mother, I got it. I’m okay with it, but I now put you in a different kind of person.’ A slight waft of judgment. 

Yesterday, as she picked up Bonnie, she could see two of the mothers standing outside the music room, very deep in muttered confidential conversation. She heard one of them saying, ‘I just wonder why they bothered having children in the first place. I don’t have any problem with working mothers, but —’ and at that moment her eyes met Joanne’s, and she dropped her hands like a child caught misbehaving. 

The Mommy War. Stay-at-home mothers are criticizing working mothers as too obsessed with their careers to take good care of their children. Working mothers are disapproving stay-at-home mothers as being limited. So you have each group of women judging the other. Like the school ended up split in two. You were either on Team Stay-At-Home-Moms or Team Working-Moms.

“Those perfect mothers are just waiting to take you down,” she grunted. “They’re swarming around the school with their little bottoms in their yoga pants. Their excited little faces, ‘Oh, we’re so busy, and you’re so absent.’ Ponytails swinging. And flats. Do not forget the flats. Spewing poison darts, ‘Where you’re running when your kid needs you at home? You’re giving motherhood a bad name’,” she grimaced.

I said nothing. She knows that she’s overreacting. Yes, some moms are the so-called 'helicopter parents,' always hovering noisily over the whole school. Yes, that’s annoying. But that’s not the norm. 

“They drive their mid-priced family SUV’s restlessly commuting from school to ballet to soccer to cello to … even child therapy, for heaven’s sake! While listening to Winnie the Pooh CDs and worrying about their offspring’s poop,” she continued. “My goodness, they use their driver license far more than their degrees!”

She paused. She’s done. 

I know she wants to be above such superficialities. She wants to be concerned about the state of the world, not some little ridiculous gossip. Each time she felt evidence of some slip she felt irrationally ashamed as if she wasn’t trying hard enough.

“I’m a bitch, aren’t I?” she whimpered. “I mean, my mom loved me. She was like interested in me. But not obsessed with me. Am I a bad mother? Working woman equals bad mom?”

“It’s nothing wrong with you. It’s nothing wrong with working or stay-at-home mothers. This so-called Mommy War is a fake fight. It’s because we created a sick culture of busyness. Both in the workplace and at home. And we glorify this,” I said. “We foolishly believe that if we’re busy, we’re important. ‘Look at me, no one else can do what I do,'” I mocked. “We are working ourselves to death, either at our job, chores around the house, or parenting. We just feed our silly ego.”

“Do you remember those chatty women in Bonnie’s first school week and their bubbly conversation about how busy and around the clock they are so they left the house without putting on any make-up?” she laughed. “I mean, what the heck?”

“Yeah, and their spouses who weren’t ‘stepping in’ and the kid room restoration that wasn't finished before school,” I smiled too.

“Busy, busy, busy. Look at me, I’m the Superwoman,” she mimicked. “Look at me. No one else can do what I do.”

“Seriously now, the consequences are extremely severe,” I said. “Mentally and physically. From increased stress to chronic disease. And top of all diminished satisfaction with your life.”

“This busyness culture demands perfection,” I continued. “The ‘good professional’ implies someone always available for work, and the ‘good mom’ implies someone always available to her children.”

“The false binary of the Motherhood Penalty,” she sneered. “As it would be impossible to be a good professional as well as a good mother.”

“Exactly. So women need to feel comfortable with their choice.”

“An auto-validation,” she nodded. “By putting more and more pressure on ourselves. The most drained wins.”

“Bogging them down,” I nodded too, “and missing the bigger picture.”

“Truth is … it is hard for everyone,” she sighed. “No matter stay-at-home or career mom.”

“You’re allies, not enemies. Stay-at-home moms are your homies. The first fellows to step up and offer their support.”

“If you need an enemy,” I continued, “you better take a closer look at employers denying flexible hours for moms. And men not doing their share at home. If you ask me, The Chore Wars is far more real than The Mummy Wars.” 

“Tell me about it! I’m not saying I didn’t have support. I had my mom to help me. But some nights, when Bonnie was sick, or when I got sick, or worse, when we both got sick, uh!”

She’s a working and a single mother. Her husband walked out on her when Bonnie was a baby.

“Any thoughts? With the perfect moms at school?” she said with a touch of affection. 

“They are so confident about their roles. Let’s start by accepting and support them. Based on reciprocity, they will accept you as a career mother. You guys all want the same thing. To feel confident with your choice. Validating one another is a good start. You all win.”

“And then?” she asked. 

“Aiming for perfection is a sure recipe for failure. Perfection is the enemy. No one can have two perfect full-time jobs. Perfect parenting skills and a perfect career. Perfect meals and, say, regarding your work, perfect data analysis.”

“And then perfect multi orgasms until down,” she said her voice brimming with laughter.

“You got it,” I laughed too. “Priorities. Some assignments should be considered good enough at 90 percent.”