I wrote a piece recently that was meant to be humorous. It was about those tiny, insignificant little annoyances that I exaggerated and turned into caricatures for the sake of satire, just for a laugh… I figured it would make a few people who’d gone through the same winter as me smile, and that the others would see it as tongue-in-cheek. Well, no…
Several readers right here pointed out that I was complaining on a full stomach, that there are worse things in life. That my oldest was a spoiled, ill-mannered child who needed to understand that life isn’t handed to you on a silver platter.
And that’s when I understood the great mystery of communication. My post was misinterpreted by people who don’t know me because I wrote it for people who do know me. Those who don’t know me can’t know that I’m always exaggerating and embellishing when I share my little everyday anecdotes. They don’t know my tendency to exaggerate to make my family and friends laugh. My message came across the wrong way because the way I delivered it wasn’t right.
Mea culpa. I don’t have twins, triplets, or sick children. My financial worries are probably nothing compared to those of single parents. I’m surrounded by supportive people; I have a good support network. My boyfriend is amazing. He’s a loving, involved father who makes sure that the division of chores and that darn mental load is truly 50-50 in our home.
I’m privileged, and I’m fully aware of it and extremely grateful.
I understand those who complain about the era of “unworthy mothers,” “mothers at their wits’ end,” and “mothers who tell it like it is…”—who portray motherhood as something horribly difficult ALL THE TIME. I understand those who complain about “perfect moms” who portray motherhood as something extremely rewarding and fulfilling—where everything is in order and spotless ALL THE TIME… What if it were something in between?
These are just snippets of our lives that we share—snippets of our personalities, snippets of our realities. What might be unsettling is that we can never show the whole picture. That a complete picture is impossible. And that preventing people from judging is practically impossible… It’d be easier to stop the sun from shining, I’d say…
There will always be worse, and there will always be better.
So I’ve decided to own it because I know my reality in its entirety. That I’m a good mother, that I do a good job, and that I love being a mom—flaws and all. And I stand by every word, every comma in everything I write. I enjoy being part of this wonderful movement called Maman Caféine, and if even just one girl, one woman, one mom sitting in front of her screen has smiled, laughed, sighed with relief, or said to herself: “Well, I guess I’m not all alone—I’m not THE only one…”—regardless of what all those people think who believe I have a spoiled child and that I’m a princess… I’ll have done my job!