judged.

The day I realized that Moms were judgy and that I didn’t fit into the social norm of motherhood was a cold day in Canada.

I was at the grocery store with my then two-year-old son, in Ontario, Canada, in January- the dead of winter with inches upon inches of snow on the ground and bone-chilling wind in the air. He had stripped his socks and shoes off and was roaming the aisles unshod.  A child with ADHD and other comorbidities, my son often experienced hypersensitivities to textures and fabrics. Sock issues were constant until around the age of three when he was able to effectively articulate that it was the seam inside the sock that ran along the top of his toes that caused him so much bother.  So, there we were, in the midst of a January blizzard, in the middle of the grocery store; him- barefoot and befuddled, and me- attentive to the stares and snickers of judgment being flung in our direction.  A believer in natural consequences and a compassionate advocate for eliminating socks deemed troublesome by my two year old child with ADHD, I opted to let my son wander happily barefoot through the grocery store. Ultimately, I trusted in the end, that the briskness of the snow would be a sufficient reason for him to endure the agony of his socks from the grocery store door to the car. Was it really worth it after all- the power struggle otherwise?  A peaceful, barefooted ten minutes in the grocery store fetching milk, cereal, bread, and ketchup, or an excruciating indeterminate amount of time grappling with my child, whom I knew, better than any one of those judgy mothers, was not about to entertain even a millisecond in the socks and shoes he stripped off with a vengeance upon our entrance. For the parents I was sharing space with in this grocery store, I was committing a monumental parental faux pas. Why, oh why, are people so eager to tell you that your parental choices suck? The lady behind me at the checkout, for instance, “You know, there are germs on the floor, and it is 20 degrees below zero outside with the wind chill, he really should be wearing socks and shoes, and also a jacket.” She noticed the absentee jacket- another problematic article of clothing for my perpetually hot-blooded son.

Parenting is a tough and thankless job- without every move being critiqued by another parent. You would think Motherhood would be one of the most uniting experiences in the world. The profound truth is that becoming a parent changes your life FOREVER, and there is no other bond greater than a parent’s love for their child.  So, why, in the grocery store that day wasn’t I given the benefit of the doubt? Why didn’t all the other Moms rally around me and bestow high praise at escaping the wrath of a headstrong toddler’s temper tantrum? I mean, we have all been there, so where were my high fives and thumbs ups? 

We are our own self’s worst critic because we know we are being judged.  It is maddening.  We are plagued with the fear of being judged, so we undermine our own parenting decisions. Isn’t that ridiculous?!? Not only am I judged for my decisions, but also for my kids. Have you ever tried to say anything other than candy covered compliments about your kid to another mother? I once told a another Mom that my kid was so loud you could hear him from two states away. I mean, why lie? He was. She looked at me like I had just tarred and feathered my mother. WHAT is the point of parenthood if we cannot be brutally honest about our kids? This shit is not easy. My kids are loud, and bossy, and selfish, and stinky, and difficult, and so many other things. Yes, of course, they are great; however, they are humans with limitations and character flaws. Why are parents always trying to promote their kids as something more or better than they are, and concealing their shortcomings? I don’t get it, which is what makes me enemy #1 of the Everything-Is-Coming Up-Daisies-Parenthood Club. My kids have issues. I have issues. What is wrong with being at your wits end sometimes, and venting that your daughter is so certifiably headstrong that the only reasonable thing you can think to do is put her in the garbage can?

None of us knows what we are doing. I have moments of total mothering brilliance followed almost immediately by complete idiocy. For example, the Clove Sticks. When my oldest son was two, for some senseless reason clove sticks were his go-to for wreaking havoc. My then husband would re-direct him, distract him, and continuously relocate the clove sticks from cabinet to cabinet. One day, on my watch, my son made it to the clove sticks. I watched as he excitedly looked at me, and ripped open the package with reckless abandon. “Knock yourself out big guy,” I thought.  With utter shock and sheer horror, my then husband walked in as he chomped down on the clove stick…only to be spat back out with authority in a matter of seconds, natural consequence in its finest.  Never again did we have to relocate the clove sticks. I started positioning them within his sight and reach. He wouldn’t so much as even look at another clove stick again. I was so impressed with myself.  

Only two short years earlier, I brought my newborn son home from the hospital in a toddler car seat. Yes, that’s right. Newborn + full size toddler car seat. We put it in facing backwards of course, we weren’t idiots. We even swung by the fire station to ensure proper installment for good measure, failing to mention it was to bring a newborn home in.  I was set to bring my first little bundle of joy home in complete and total safety.  In the car, I could not understand what was wrong here- why wasn’t he sitting snuggly in the seat? His whole upper body was flopping forward, hunched over. He wasn’t bending or sitting, just folding over forward. He was screaming. Oh God, what was wrong with my son that he couldn’t sit up in his car seat? Already, this is the kid I have? I sat in the back next to him on the ride home. I put one hand on his chest, keeping him upright flushed against the back of the car seat. I put my other hand on his forehead, keeping his head back and upright against the back of the seat. I kept saying, “Something is wrong with him.” Come to find out upon arriving home, an eager friend- with no children like us- had bestowed us the gift of the toddler car seat… for when he was… a TODDLER.  Another (smarter) family member had purchased a stroller travel system for us, which included an infant carrier car seat…for…INFANCY. Duh. Newborn babies can’t sit up all nice and straight. They don’t bend! Well, cripes, who knew?! So, finally, after two years, I found vindication as a parent from this epic fail with a clove stick. I love that clove stick.  

I have one Mom friend, only one, that I can be completely at home with, uninhibited with about both my parenting genius and parenting stupidity. I can confide in her all of my kids’ drawbacks, disadvantages, difficulties, and dimness without any condemnation. No wonder she is my best friend. Her son and my middle son are best friends. I am pretty sure my son would choose her family over me and his own family. One nice, sunny day, at her house, she hands me this folded up, tattered piece of paper, and says, “Here, I found this when we were packing up Myles’ room. They were playing around on the old typewriter upstairs last week, and Myles said that Shaye accidentally left it here.” She then handed me a glass of bourbon. I don’t drink bourbon. And certainly not at noon on a Sunday. I look cautiously at her, and then warily at the paper in my hand. I open it, slowly, not sure what I was about to discover. I read… It appears, my son (ten, at the time) typed this poem, or, rap song (We aren’t entirely sure which one it is- a poem, or a song; perhaps, it is a rap poem.) on her old typewriter.  In this rap sonnet, he included every horrendous cuss word you could ever imagine, with the glorious F word appearing about every other word. It was laced with slang words and references about life’s injustices, social deviations, and modern day thugs. It was gangster. It was a powerfully brute, gnashing your teeth type of literary masterwork. It rhymed. It was written in verses. It was long, and stirring, and loud, and angry, and in your face. It was shocking. Horrifying. My sweet, lovable, charming, softhearted, boyishly delightful Shaye. Where did this come from!? Oh my god, was he troubled? How did this happen? What did I do wrong? I could not unread what I had just read. How do I make this go away? Bourbon. I guzzled my bourbon, and I folded that little sucker right back up, shoved it in my pocket, and vowed never to speak of it again. However, there was a problem… a witness…my best friend. I glanced at her, trying not to make direct eye contact. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do here. My options, as far as I saw were 1- run away and cut all ties, or 2- leave, and immediately enroll both of us into counseling. We obviously needed it. I tried to feel her out. I could see her choosing her exact words for when she next spoke. This is it, I thought, I had finally lost my only actual friend because my kids and I are completely screwed up. Why can’t we just be normal!?!  She is going to tell me that she doesn’t think Myles and Shaye should be friends any longer, and for me not to call her.  She looks at me, and says “So...I was thinking…” Here it comes. “Moving forward,” she continued, “Shall we refer to Shaye as ‘ShayeDawg’ or ‘ShayeDizzle’ or maybe ‘Rapmaster ShayeDizzle,’ or ‘ShayeD’ ‘BigDawgShaye’? We could set him up a little writing studio to feed his alter ego…and maybe get some gangsta clothes to fit the bill…we can call you ‘MommaDawg’…what do you think?” And then, it came… the irrepressible, unrelenting laughter sprang out of her. She was spitting bourbon out of her nose. “Omg, what was that?!” she asked through hysterical tears. At that moment, I lost it. We sank down to the floor in a wild, uncontrollable, snorting fit of laughter.

With their growth, our kids presented us new and puzzling situations that we were completely unprepared for. Like the amateurs we were, we handled these newfound quandaries with forbidding truth, mirth, and mockery. I was felt at home in scrupulous tolerance and acceptance of dysfunction. THIS parenthood society was exactly the one for me.

We need to become a community that supports one another through everything dysfunctional, irregular, weird, horrifying, magnificent, painful, beautiful, awkward, and hard; rather than a community that tries to tear each other down.  Support is so powerful, and judgment is so damaging.  We need much, much more of one; and, much, much less of the other.