The most demanding view of motherhood is this romanticized notion: that no woman is complete or fulfilled unless she has kids. In addition to this, the world’s view about motherhood is that she must remain the best primary caregiver of her children, devote her entire physical, emotional and intellectual well-being 24/7. This old perception seem to celebrate motherhood on the surface, but in reality promulgates a standard for mothers that is almost beyond reach.
However, mothers of today are more progressive, skipping the 1960s feminine mystique.
Now, mother can do work outside the home, set up a business, report the news, wear a stethoscope or sell real estate. She is able to go with the terrain of breaking down barriers, by starting with one brick in the wall of her motherhood. She can also choose to have her own ambition and career, raise children on her own or simply choose to stay, rather than being forced to.
She has choices now and a control of her destiny. She has autonomy. Still, she is confronted with two rather contradicting cultural riptides: be a doting, self-sacrificing stay-at-home mother, or a more well-achieving mother at work than Madeline Albright. Motherhood is said to be the ultimate female Olympic sport, yet the competition isn’t over who’s a good mother— no, it is the best!
My four girls are the center of my universe. When they were young children, they always made me smile. I never got tired of them nor lost my temper; instead, I swathed myself with understanding. I never raised my hand, even in self-defense.
Through the years, we learned not only to respond to their needs, but how to predict them with the telepathic accuracy of Houdini. I have memorized verbatim all the books of childcare on developmentally approved approach on children, and learned to treat the 6-year-old with respect, to apologize in any missteps that may lead to permanent psychological and or physical change.
I’ve learned to respect the three-year-old writing on the floor, screaming, because I have refused to buy her more Cheez It and Oreos for lunch. The four-year-old whining repeatedly, in a voice that can saw raw cement, wanted, every junk food her eyes had set on, or the teenager who has not spoken to me for three days except to say, “You’ve ruined my life,” followed by “Everyone has one.” Sulking in the car and everywhere, nothing can undermine one’s sanity more.
To distract myself, I avoided the glare of the other shoppers who have already deemed me as the worst mother in America. By leafing through the pages of the supermarket tabloids, before I became a psychological police state.
Motherhood, learned through tedious years of experience, produced a prevailing common sense—that only you, the individual mother, are responsible for your child’s welfare. The buck stops with you, period, and you’d better be a superstar!
Here are some mothers of the Fil Com that approximates, just that.
