The Mothers' Days None of Us Asked For

There are two types of mothers: mothers who are struggling and liars.

If you’re a mother nodding her head right now, you are my people. If you are wrinkling your forehead in confusion as you plan an Instagram post of a filtered, angelic photo of your cooperating children painting birdhouses on your homemade, distressed mini picnic table in your backyard, well...you’re in that other camp.

Being a mother is the hardest job I’ve ever worked. If it were an actual job (i.e. one that came with a W-2), I would have quit four years ago. No one would willingly show up every day to this hostile work environment.

As a mother, I’m overworked, overlooked, underappreciated, harassed (have you ever had a “coworker” yell your name six inches from your face 47 times in a row?), assaulted (by toys/arms/food flying at my head), stalked (often when hiding in the bathroom) and unpaid (a 401K in our house is a magnetic configuration of letters and numbers covered in hardened jelly on the fridge). 

Of course, there are amazing parts of being a mother. We are “paid” in ways that are often better than cash or stock. I love my boys fiercely and unconditionally. They have made my life better and fuller. They have made me stronger and braver. 

But, I’m not here to talk about that today.

Because most of the enjoyable, fulfilling and gratifying parts of motherhood are under attack by the COVID-19 crisis.

This quarantine is wringing the good parts of life out of me.

We are in our eighth week of sheltering in place; a maddeningly repetitive and unrelenting cycle of minutes and moments, showing up uninvited, every 24 hours. 

We are forced to play the role of parent, caregiver, educator, referee, chef, housekeeper, career professional and let us not forget a human - who also has her own individual physical, emotional and psychological needs - all at the same time. 

We’re talking a lot about what workplaces and the workforce, in general, will look like on the other side of this pandemic. But, I’d like to petition for our assumed responsibilities, and uneven burden, as caregivers to undergo a transformation as well. 

“Women shoulder the planning, the organizing and the remembering of everything that needs to be remembered. The mental load that comes with that work has grown exponentially in recent weeks. We’ve been socialized for 200 years for women to take this load on without even talking about it.” 

Every week of this quarantine is filled with Mothers' Days none of us asked for.

I would argue that you never get a day “off” when you’re a mom - and certainly not on the day claiming to celebrate you. So, for you mothers out there, I’m curious: on every Mother’s Day you’ve celebrated prior to this year, did you actually end up choreographing the day? Has it been your job to think of, select and send links to the surprises and gifts you might receive? To book reservations at a restaurant far enough in advance that you don’t have to wait two hours for a table? To plan a menu, and cook said dishes, for your "casual" brunch at a friend’s house? 

Yeah. Me neither. 

Even though no day of being a mother is one of rest, at least outside of this global pandemic we had some time away; in the office, on a business trip, around our neighborhood, at the nail salon, meeting friends for a drink or our clinician for a bit of Botox. None of that exists in this new surreal world.

It’s getting to me. 

You know that “glow” that is referenced when people wax poetic about pregnancy and motherhood? It’s actually a red, hot fire of rage that burns at your core, emitting waves of heat that reverberate to your extremities, which you struggle to contain through gritted teeth. 

I may not need Botox post-pandemic. Because, oh am I glowing. 

And speaking of women’s anger, I want to challenge an unrealistic expectation too often placed on the matriarch of the family: to unwaveringly grin and bear it.

When you are frustrated, lose your temper, say it’s not ok to be kicked or yelled at, you are not being a “bad mom;” you’re being a full human who demands her hard-earned, well-deserved respect, empathy and a damn break every once in awhile.

But, in the midst of this crisis, we’re not getting one. And so the moments where I’m losing my cool - and am on the verge of, or fully engulfed in, breaking - are happening at an increasingly rapid pace. And the guilt that comes with it is debilitating. 

My four year old, William, and 20-month old Charlie do not understand this quarantine. Why am I always here and yet so often, unavailable? Why can’t we go to the park or a friend’s house or school or a restaurant? Do we still have a car? When will we go in it again? They want more from me than I can possibly give; so I am constantly disappointing them and on the receiving end of tantrums, desperation and a barrage of questions, demands and pleas.

The people who say “enjoy the time when your kids are little and desperate to be around you," you're only saying that because you aren’t being smothered anymore. That advice also existed in a world before the planet was on lockdown; when “claustrocovida” became a real thing. 

So, can we stop expecting moms to love every moment?

To not see a glass of water we finally poured for ourselves (then commandeered by our children and currently filled with floating half-eaten Ritz crackers) as half full, but instead as the half empty, undrinkable liquid it has now become? 

We shouldn’t have to love the crappy moments. Anyone who says she does is lying. Or on stronger meds than the ones I’ve currently been prescribed. (No, but seriously. What meds are you taking? Please advise.)

Women will pull us through - and out of - this crisis. We always do.

One in three jobs held by women, after all, has been designated as essential. But just because we carry it all so well doesn’t mean it’s not heavy. It never gets easier. We just get stronger. And although the saying goes, “necessity is the mother of invention,” I like to say, mothers are the necessity of invention. 

All we want during this time of constant togetherness is a moment to apart: a chance to scroll through Instagram, without being asked for another popsicle; the ability to go for a walk outside, without making sure our kid doesn’t veer his Paw Patrol bike into traffic; a moment to sit with a glass of wine, without someone knocking it over one sip in; ten minutes to take a shower, without a child screaming on the other side of the curtain; a full, uninterrupted Peloton ride, without a small hand holding onto our calf to “help us peddle;” a moment of silence, free from the never-ending cacophonic repetition of a role we love to play but a word we’re sick of hearing: “mom.”

So, on this Mother’s Day, can we please just get some time alone? No hard feelings. Truly. You all are great.

We just want to give a gift to the woman of the hour that we know she desperately needs: herself.