There are some words you read written in pithy little essays, and you think “Aww -this is for effect only”. “The author is exaggerating” or “What baloney” etc. Words like “ripping pain”. Words like “the most beautiful”. Word like “angelic”. But they really are true. When they describe labor pain – ripping pain – it really is that kind of pain. When they describe newborns, they really are like that – “the most beautiful”, “angelic”. Me, I’m no overly sentimental girl. I don’t gush over babies, even now. I don’t coochie-coo to random kids. I have no overt “motherly” instinct (who said it’s inborn ?). But when you see your kid, and I don’t mean see them when you’re exhausted from labor, and don’t have the strength to breathe, I mean when you really see them – it’s incredible, and that’s putting it mildly. When I saw my daugther, I thought my kid ! WHOOPEE ! The one I’ve been harboring in my tummy these past months, a little part of me, getting food though my body, every breath I took she breathed. Look at her ! The little fingers, the absolutely exquisite nails, the curve of her stubby nose, her chin – mine, the complete loveliness of her face !

I mean, you love your kid to bits, don’t ya ? If the kid needed my blood, you could plug a hose directly into my veins and drain me of all blood, couldn’t ya ? And would I whimper ? I think not. But, oh man ! The “good mother” guilt. It’s like with the IV they put into me at childbirth time, they also dosed me with a super large helping of guilt. It’s not enough that you be a Mom, you’d better me the best there ever is. And what is a good mother ? I present to you the holy commandments of Good Motherhood :

1. Thou shalt not use Huggies/Pampers/paper diapers.

2. Thy baby shall never know a pacifier.

3. Thou must breastfeed until the baby is ready to leave for college or has reached adulthood, whichever comes first (it’s like a car warranty).

4. Thou must hand-prepare all of baby’s food. Using pre-packaged food, is a SIN.

5. Thou must present an ever-smiling countenance, even when sleep-deprived and exhausted. To express even the slightest bit of discomfort is an EVEN BIGGER SIN.

These are the basic 5. Please feel free to add others.

Gimme a break, folks. When my mother landed in the USA, for my baby’s birth, she brought with her a dozen or more cloth triangles, in cute baby colors – pink, lemon yellow, blue. Ignorant me, I had no clue what they were. When I realized they were cloth diapers, we laughed over the cutesy colors. My Mom is a big proponent of Commandment #1. Needless to say, after the first few days, after cleaning up lots of black-looking poop, and washing innumerable cloth diapers, neither my husband nor I were quite as excited about them.

I have had a long-standing battle with pacifiers. For the uninitiated, these are devices which soothe a baby and are made possible by advancements in moulded plastic (or whatever – I don’t give a hoot, they are there, aren’t they ?). With my first kid, I wrung my hands and agonized over whether I should or should not – disapproving folk told me they would effect tooth development. To make a long story short, I caved. And bought pacifiers. Lots of them. Even now, with my kids beyond that stage, I routinely find pacifiers under sofa cushions and under beds.

Pacifiers however, have a technical design flaw. Babies can spit them out. And lose them. And then they’ll bawl their eyes out. With my second kid, greater wisdom and all, we got the kid a pacifier holder, which is a string thing with a clip at one end, and a pacifier at the other. The clip neatly attaches to baby’s clothing, so that once spit out, the pacifier can’t go very far. I mean, I love the internet and all, but then I loved these pacifier attachment thingies even more.

It’s not like I have a problem with the above commandments (except that they’re insane) – you want to breastfeed your kid until the kid is old enough to come tapping on your mammary glands in public, whenever they need nutrition (I’ve seen it happen) – go ahead. More power to you. But don’t expect me to do the same. And don’t tell me what’s good for my baby. I know.

Of course, if you violate any of the above Commandments, you get the Scarlet M – the dreaded BAD MOTHER tag. It looms large, it’s everywhere. It’s there when you mention that you went back to work really quick, and the kid’s went to a sitter. It’s there when you mention that the kid’s watch their movie when you watch yours. It’s there when you decide you want time to read a book, a little me-only time. It’s there when you admit (even to yourself) that you need more stimulation than just baby-talk all day. It’s there when you want to speak your mind, and tell them just how you feel. The Fear of Being Called a Bad Mother is at the #3 slot – you know, right after the fear of cancer and fear of public speaking .

When I became a Mom, I had no clue what to do. I was afraid of holding my daughter lest I injure her fragile neck, and the gap in the cranium freaked me out. Like what, they have a hole in the skull ? What if we nitwit parents can’t handle her properly ? Anyway, beyond those first few days, you begin to realise that poop does not smell like rose-petals (we each had mapped the day into diaper-changing turns). My Mom, when she noticed us wrinkling our noses at the smell, said it’d get worse as the baby ate more solid food. I thought, at the time, that that was quite an unnecessary piece of information, although she couldn’t stop laughing

Anyway, what it boils down to is that when the kids are not pooping, they generally like watching SpongeBob, give kisses unasked, and smell like GOODNESS. The very pure variety.

Cult of Bad Mama – Part 1, here.