Stop Romanticizing Motherhood by Monica Wilcox

May 8th, 2013

mommy and me, photogr Sofia Sanchez and Mauro Mongiello

Photographers: Sofia Sanchez and Mauro Mongiello

Mother’s Day is on the calendric horizon. The Mother of The Year Awards have begun. These lucky women will have a celebrity chef deliver their breakfast in bed, take an exotic trip to Bora Bora, or win a year’s supply of Tide.

To The Video:  

-Morning show – “Our Mom of The Year, Shelia, broke her back in a car accident five years ago and still managed to deliver her fourth child. She never stopped working her full time job, manages the household, maintains the finances, gets the kids to school and coaches her son’s soccer team.  All of this while she endured years of excruciating physical therapy.”

Cut to Husband Dave – “There’s nothing Sheila won’t do for her family. She’s always putting everyone else ahead of herself.”

-Afternoon show – “The winner of our Best Mom in The Bay Award, Tory, is a single mom who hasn’t slowed down for the last nineteen years. She’s adopted nine children from abusive situations and works the night shift so she can homeschool them during the day. When the kids wanted a trip to Disney, Tory took a second job for a full year to save up the money for their trip.”

Cut to Grandmother – “I don’t know when she sleeps. And she’s showing the rest of us to stop thinking about ourselves. There’s always someone who’s got it worse than you.”

-Local news – “Our Best Mom Award goes to Kimberly. She’s dedicated her entire life to children. When the kids were in school, Kimberly became a deacon in her community church, started a foundation for children on the street and manages a nonprofit business providing babysitting for parents who are looking for work. Even after she was diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer, Kimberly never slowed down. She never missed a school function, sporting event, church meeting or a day of work with her foundation. The day after her last chemo treatment she was in the front row at her daughter’s wedding.”

Cut to Video of Kimberly cheering her son’s wrestling meet with a colorful scarf wrapped around her thin head.

Am I supposed to aspire to be like these mothers? Is this the modern role model of American motherhood: consuming, sacrificial, ultra-selfless, tireless? How high are we setting the mommy bar? At that height, I can safely project a generation of moms will end up energetically blown out.

STOP ROMANTICIZING MOTHERHOOD 

I’m not taking anything away from these women or the lives they are leading but STOP broadcasting them up as the epitome of motherhood. The few women I know who live like these award winners are in one of two categories: hyperactive helpers or a mominista.

There is a good chance these shows are confusing typical mothers for natural born mothers; ladies who live to have a child back to back to back. They enjoy taking seven children into the women’s clothing section. They aspire to fold laundry, teach algebra, prepare dinner and organize a community street party during the witching hour.

Everyone has met a woman like this. She’s that chipper gal sitting in the baseball stands all weekend with her packed lunches, drinks and sunscreen. She’s that woman in the grocery aisle whose six kids are calmly filling the cart. The woman who throws backyard pool parties on a weekly whim. Comparing them to the rest of us is like comparing my roast to Julia Child’s beef bourguignon.

I find all of these award shows are sending a detrimental message. The “everyone else first” marker being one of the greatest. It’s not enough that our careers take a hard hit. Apparently the great moms sacrifice their dreams, pleasures, down time, and personal care to meet the needs of everyone else too.

I’m here to call a Capital B, BULLSHIT!! June Cleaver is 60 years gone, folks. The notion that a mother’s value is measured in how hard she serves everyone else is unhealthy, unrealistic and delusional. We carry enough emotional baggage trying to balance our job, kids, marriage, homes and (don’t mention it) ourselves. Do we have to have cancer or lost limbs to float to the top?

Authentic Motherhood

If you want a Mother of the Year to feature, find authentic women who are struggling every day to balance the fullness of their lives with their children’s. Having children was never our passion. I mean, there was a reasonable chance we would discover we hated parenting. This mothering business was a huge pleap (pink leap) for us. It’s one of the bravest choices we make.

Here are the mothers I know:

To The Video

“Mother of the Year Brenda – Even though the father of her two girls has abandoned them financially, physically and emotionally, Brenda still manages to provide them with food, a roof, cute clothes, shoes and health insurance. On an honest day she’d admit she regrets having kids and then buries herself in the guilt of such thoughts. After an eleven hour work day, getting her youngest to the dentist, a drive thru dinner and dance practice she has no energy left to play with them as she should. She needs to pay bills, fix the leaking toilet, water the back yard, make a grocery list, go through email and load the dishwasher. Her heart wants to lock itself in the garage and paint through the summer. Instead, Brenda sits down with her oldest to go over phonics coding, biting back her frustration that she’ll be up past midnight once again.”

“Mom of the Year Gina – She always dreamed of running a Bed and Breakfast but not in this way. She’s got 1,000 square feet of grout to scrub, breakfast to clean up, the garage is a disaster, beds to remake, gym class, and a shopping date with her girlfriend. She debates which credit card to put it on because she’s spent too much on shoes already this week. She hates shopping but it’s the only thing she can think of doing between her 11 am workout and 2:30 school pick up that doesn’t involve housework. Luckily, she’s too busy the rest of the day to give it much thought. Between 3 and 10 she taxies one of the four kids to their practices and play dates, gets the van cleaned, makes dinner for the kids, helps with homework, manages the baths, makes dinner for her husband, folds laundry and walks the dogs. When she falls asleep at night she no longer dreams but she does have this nightmare: her family, and her reason to get up each day, burns in a fiery car wreck.”

“Best Mom in The Bay winner, Gretchen, still finds time to take care of the dogs she’s fostering since they bring her the greatest peace and joy. Many days she has to juggle between her 9-5 job, her 2 teenagers, and her depressed husband who lost his job after the crash. They’ve had to cut down to one car and may have to move in with his parents, which would be the end to her fostering but she tries not to worry about that or how long it might be before their marriage is happy again. There are days she is angry, hurt and frustrated. Days she yells at her kids and then yells at herself. But she wakes up fighting for their family and the hope that good times will return.”

These are authentic mothers, whose roles don’t need to be supersized or glamourized. They give up their summer family vacation so they can play on a softball team. They do the laundry with all four limbs as their kids watch a crappy cartoon. They struggle to balance, to grow, to learn and to be a bit better each day no matter what life throws at them.

Motherhood is not a total sacrifice of self or a consummation. It’s a topsy turvy, human relationship reflected in the shiny eyes of our children.

So I’m asking these shows to be mindful of who you pick as Mother of the Year. Be mindful of how high you set the bar and why.  Are you going to inspire or overwhelm the rest of us?

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Mind Over Medicine: The Personal Power We Have Over Our Health by Monica Wilcox

April 28th, 2013

MOM final cover

I had this funky, unexplainable medical issue with my face. It started with the massive cold sore that took over the corner of my mouth. This may not be a big deal for some but I only get them when I’m moving, flying to New Zealand or living in the sun. That averages out to one every 4 years. After a two week recuperation, another one came on. Two weeks later a third one hit me. Something was wrong.  I was as frustrated and mystified as my naturopath physician. We even ran a test on my white blood cell count to make sure it was running properly.

Then I started getting tingly spiders all over my face and inside my mouth. You know, that strong tingling feeling you get when the blood returns back to a part of your body that has fallen asleep. My gut told me something was triggering the virus that creates fever blisters but I had no idea what it could be. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Last of Her Kind Bears Her Story of Extinction by Monica Wilcox

April 22nd, 2013

Femme Tales

I am the last of the Overseers. It has been left to me to carry on the telling. Forgive me, but I’m still trying to take in how quickly and smoothly it all happened; how my people became another name on a long list of extinctions.

I shall tell the tale, but only because it bears repeating. And this is a repetition. Our extinction was not the first, or the second or even the third. Oh no. This story, like all stories, has been shared before, only from different places and other people. It has been told but we did not listen. I do not know if I can make myself heard, but I must try. Is there any other reason why I am left?

The Telling

We were of the Gettapeeka Lush and yes, it was everything you have ever heard it to be. If anything, the fables, poems, ballads and painted landscapes were an under exaggeration. Look upon a sunset over a clear ocean blue. Watch the sky trickle from fire to the color of coals and tell me there are words to match the stain upon your pupils and the feeling in your heart. Some things are grander than words.

But there is one word to describe how it felt: ripe. Oh yes, that was how the end began.

One day there came a cloud of soot over Gettapeeka Lush and a strange creature started roaring long into the day and night. The Overseers walked until they came upon a yellow beast eating a massive whole in The Lush. A man stepped out of the beast’s belly and introduced himself as Mr. Principle Landowner. “How lucky am I,” he exclaimed, “to own such beautiful land. I love it here! I love it so much I’m going to build a house with the biggest of the trees. I’m going to drink, wash, cook, and poop in its waters. I’m going to devour its sweetness and feast on its seeds.”

“We have never heard of a love like this.” said my wise uncle.

“Then you must watch carefully and follow my lead so you too can love Gettapeeka Lush.” Read the rest of this entry »

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There’s Not Enough Time (& Other Crackpot Illusions) by Melanie Bates

April 13th, 2013

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I’ve been thinking about time a lot lately. Specifically:

  • Where has it all gone?
  • How can I get more of it?
  • Why’s it moving so damn fast?
  • I have none.
  • Is it really possible to bend it? (Keep reading.)

Last week I had a short coaching session with one of Martha Beck’s Master Coaches – the slathered in Awesome Sauce, Jen Trulson. I won’t get into the boring details of the whining which led up to my takeaway, but essentially I have a deeply ingrained thinking error that says, “There’s not enough time.”

There’s. Not. Enough. Time:

… for me to take in sustenance.

… for me to pant on the treadmill for a measly 10 minutes.

… for me to shave my legs (and most definitely not for the subsequent braiding of the leg hair from lack of said shaving.)

… for me to take time off (ponder that one, folks.)

… blah, blah, blah.

But the thing is, I know, at the deepest level of my core, that time is a man-made construct. Who’s the asshat who came up with Leap Year, people? I have long believed somewhere inside of me that time is an illusion. Maybe part of a 42nd dimension that we just can’t comprehend yet. I started to get an inkling of the proof of this (from what my tiny brain could understand) when I first read Einstein’s Theory of Relativity – essentially that “the laws of physics are the same for all non-accelerating observers, and that the speed of light in a vacuum was independent of the motion of all observers.”

Say what? Read the rest of this entry »

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A Mask Hides More Than a Face: The Debate Over Anonymity by Monica Wilcox

April 1st, 2013

masquerade

I greatly admired Anony as a child. Back then my friends and I fantasized about living the “anonymous” life: brilliant, dark, modest, selfless, cutting edge. We knew Anonymous had a hidden, secretive, scary, and radical side too. Being “unknown” was sleek and sexy compared to our hum drum lives. It was beyond the FBI files; a life undefined.  In the olden days, before the Net took hold of us and brought down the tech, Anonymous meant one of two things: modesty or rebellion. Deep Throat was anonymous.  Homer, Washington Irving, C.S. Lewis, Sandy Beech and Professor X were all anonymous. So was Jack the Ripper, The Night Stalker and BFK.  Good or bad, being anonymous equated to a high level of bravery. Anonymous was the marker of an outlandish soul living so far along the fringes they could not be seen, yet, were well heard.

Not So Much Today

Now Anony equates to a grey, androgynous human outline in a blue box that can be put on and off faster than a bowler hat… by anyone. Any one. It no longer requires an act of bravery and a forward thinking perspective, or radical opinions; just a passing thought, a third grade education and a keyboard. Anonymous may not be the majority but it has become common. Children no longer fantasize about an anonymous life.  No one bothers to hunt down their identity. Conspiracy theorists have turned their strained eyes to more authentic mysteries. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Trappings of A Re-Inspired Life by Monica Wilcox

March 26th, 2013

Skin-Shedding-Photography

Forgive me, I’m not my usual today. I haven’t been my usual inspired, literary, jubilant self for some weeks now.  Nope. I’ve been living more of a blah, so-so, ho-hum kind of existence. Like mono without the four month nap.

Who knew you could grow bored with an entire life overnight?

You know what I’m talking about, that “Standing naked in your closet because you have nothing to wear” start to the day. Are these my clothes? When was the neon orange jumpsuit a trend? Holy cotton blend, isn’t this sweater section the same one I had in eleventh grade. Are those shoulder pads? How did I ever imagine this dress looked adorable on me?

You know the “I’m starving to death but nothing sounds good” hunger. I’m standing in the middle of twelve thousand square feet of food options and can’t find a thing to eat. I could spend my entire life at the olive bar, there are mounds of vegetables I can’t pronounce, and they’ve got Chicken Waffle Lays on sale today! No growl of the stomach, no salivating, no interest. Maybe the pet food isle has a new raw hide flavor?

You know those “I’m bored but can’t be entertained” kind of nights. When 700 channels, 48 books, 8 new movies and 3 seasons of Downton Abby are not nearly enough.  I’m not in the mood to obliterate The Avengers again, I’ve golfed Tiger into a hole, danced Beyoncé’ into a fierce case of thigh blisters, and fed every Madden quarterback grass for breakfast. I guess I’ll stare out the window and watch the dark ooze black.

Yeap, I’m in that “IDC” kind of mood. “Where do you want to go for date night?” I don’t care. “Do you want to pick up our son from baseball practice?” I don’t care. “Mom, can I have fourteen girls spend the night so we can Cool-Aid dye our hair?” I don’t care. My husband is seriously missing his opportunity to get that mistress he’s always wanted… Whatever. Read the rest of this entry »

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Falling a Few Gold Stars Short by Monica Wilcox

March 9th, 2013

hanging-stars

When the same obnoxious dream returns year after year after year, I ask myself “Who is this black raven tapping at my REM sleep door?” Every now and again I dream that I’ve been readmitted to high school. Since I distinctly remember rocking my twenty year class reunion, these dreams give me a direct shot of turmoil.  Apparently there’s been a transcript error; I owe nine months of hard time to Precalculus.  So I’m here, fumbling to remember my ‘86 locker combo, the tardy bell’s ringing, my classroom feels two miles away and a herd of giant, snotty nosed buffalo are charging down the hallway at me. I wake, burrowing down in my blanket, grateful that my nap has come to an end. However, it’s 3 pm on a Thursday, I’m 42, and I’ve got two backpacks strolling up the block for our regular appointment. I’ve slipped out of one dream into another.

Graduation, Diploma, Senior Party; these are but the illusions of completion. I did my elementary time; memorized my multiplication tables, studied my state history. I endured petty girl-fights, crude boy talk and hours of jump rope jingles. Yet… YET… even though I’m no longer legally bound to a school building, apparently I still have responsibilities to the Department of Education.

If only I were one of those parents doing their children’s homework. Instead, I’m the overseer: explaining, finishing, rechecking and memorizing. Thanks to a system running on hyperdrive, my first grader is hammering out math skills from a story problem he can’t fully read. “‘Chang assembled 29 power grids. He runs 13 down to Shauna, who damaged 6 of them before she swiped 4 more grids off Alyssa’s line. How many grids did Chang have left to send off to Petro in processing?’” My son wrinkles his eyebrows, “Who is ‘processing’?”  “Just focus on the numbers, Buddy. Microeconomics happens in 5th grade.” Read the rest of this entry »

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The Arctic Tundra of My Soul by Melanie Bates

March 3rd, 2013

photo (1)

I haven’t had much to say. Maybe you’ve noticed. More likely you were busy fighting with family over the turkey neck , making popcorn garland interspersed with bright red cranberries and hiding your kid’s frightening Furby on the back shelf at the top of your closet.  Perhaps you’ve been hanging out in said closet, below your fancy party dresses, eating your Valentine’s chocolates.  Maybe you’re mapping out your spring garden.

For a writer, having nothing to say feels like mammoth emptiness. It feels like the Grand Canyon, only bigger.  It feels like Russia. In the depths of winter. After a blizzard. At minus 40 degrees. Wearing only a white wife beater and a pair of tattered yoga pants.

I’ve been on a pretty intense spiritual journey over the past few months and my flip-flops are so worn out that the balls of my feet are pushing through the soles onto the pavement.

I’m exhausted.

I haven’t slept since October 2002.

I’m too tired to sleep.

The overarching theme of my recent spiritual road trip has been rest.

Whispering to horses

I recently traveled to California with Lissa Rankin to meet up with Martha Beck and her team for a “Heal the Healer” curriculum planning meeting. Our plan is to train fifteen doctors in a new way to practice medicine and the purpose of our trip was to experience what the healers will experience on the opening week of this program. Martha brought in a brilliant team: an amazeballs energy body worker, an astounding horse whisperer, a gifted coach and empath, and a number of others. I’m not wholly ready to share the entire experience with the world, but I will share one part of the weekend. Read the rest of this entry »

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We Are Not the Names They Called Us: On Getting Your Glow Back by Monica Wilcox

February 24th, 2013

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Do we come of age in a singular moment or is it a gathering progression? I’m not talking about the ceremonious physical coming of age that entitles one to a plastic coated card. I’m referring to the life rendering psychological event; that moment your candy coated, rainbow sparkled life gets blown up by a bazooka named Hard Reality. We climb to the glorious peak of our youth only to be pushed over the cliff; plummeting at shocking speed into the pits of adulthood.

I wonder if it’s gloriously tragic for each and every one of us or just an unfortunate few?  All I know is one day you’re pushing your Barbie car through a carpet of Fruit Loops when your neighbor decides to shoot your dog for pooping on his petunias. Or your new step-dad takes a frying pan to your little brother. Or your Mom goes out for groceries and never comes home. Or the school bully makes you his new pet project.

One day the world was right. Remember? Remember how that felt?

Confident

Easy

Tranquil

Certain

And then it wasn’t.

You’d think a moment like that would be memorialized on our calendar; like our birthday, only it’s polar opposite. Death day, the day we buried our most cherished friend in a tub of marshmallow fluff and rainbow sprinkles. My memory of my Death Day is sketchy but it was early. This is a surprise when you consider I’ve been late to arrive to every other milestone: growing hips, monthly bleeding, choosing a degree, having kids, jumping on the life purpose wagon. I’d be freakin’ pissed about the late bloomer thing if I wasn’t busy showing up late for grey hair, crows feet, back pain, neck pain, joint pain and high blood pressure. Being a late bloomer has nice returns come midlife. Read the rest of this entry »

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Are Women Rising At the Expense of Men? by Monica Wilcox

February 10th, 2013

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God sent me two, a girl and a boy. For twelve years I’ve done my best to love each of them equally yet specifically. I’ve enjoyed discovering their individual personalities and special quirks. We’ve gone through the growing pains, the stages, and 10,333 socks together. Like most parents, I’ve made an effort to provide them the tools and space they need to come into their own unhindered. I’m not sure the world is doing the same. This may be the first generation of mothers who will have to fight for the equal rights of their sons. Who would have imagined such a thing?

Women Rising

There is a HUGE push in this country to raise the living standards of women around the world. It’s overdue, justified and needed. Consider the handful of movements, organizations and efforts that are peppering my inbox this week:

V-Day’s One Billion Rising - This year-long campaign is drawing to a close on Valentine’s Day. The movement encourages all of us to “challenge and shatter the worldwide acceptance of violence against women”. It was founded by the amazing Eve Ensler, who started the same way all great activists do, as an individual who can no longer live watching a great wrong. More than 1 out of every 3 women on this planet will experience violence during her lifetime. “With 7 billion people on the planet, that’s one billion women. Stopping this violence is as crucial as addressing the issues of disease, hunger, and climate change.” Eve Ensler says, “One Billion Rising is a global strike, a call to refuse to participate until rape and rape culture ends. It’s a solidarity reach, a new refusal, and a new way of being.” Participants are encouraged to dance this Valentine’s Day as they celebrate an end to violence against women and girls. Read the rest of this entry »

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