The Good Enough Mother (& Why You’ve Failed).

Today my therapist illuminated me to a field of momhood that has eclipsed my generation of moms: “The Good-Enough Mother.” An idea coined by pediatrician Donald Winnicott in an earlier era of mothers who were encouraged to feel guilty about their not good enoughness. Dr. Winnicott’s theory, in very brief, was that basically y’all can’t be good mothers if you’re not taking care of yourself first, so as your kid gets more independent, you should too. Basically Dr. Winnicott would not be on pinterest feverishly pinning Artisinal Autumnal Crafts. Instead Dr. Winnicott would be ditching the kiddos off at the YMCA Drop & Shop -peace out spawn!

So, The Good Enough Mother: Post-World War II, when the world was awash in chaos and women were re-shuttled back into the kitchens to swish around with giant skirts, while pretending to be happy, they were being told to be content with motherhood and wifely duties. UGH. Dr. Winnicott decided yeah right — in order for your child to be a complete person they need autonomy ergo mommy needs a smoke and a soap opera so go play outside. I grew up this way (sans the cigs) and probably most of you did as well. And guess what — I’m alive and if you’re reading this than so too are you. Now no theory is perfect. Maybe we fell down more. Maybe we SHOULD have been wearing bike helmets. Maybe the reason we’re all so invested in Facebook is the result of mass-cultural traumatic brain injuries or neglectful parenting that has made us seek attenton from strangers - that I don’t know. What I do know is that my mother certainly didn’t feel guilty that our lunch boxes contained a Little Debbie snack. And she certianly didn’t feel she mistreated us becuase we were forced to wear non-organic clothing. And my mom defintiely did not “play” — that’s what friends were for, and backyards, and playgrounds, and extracurricular activities which we were dropped off for. Now, I’ve learned, the parents remain — to watch, and engage. #KILLME

By the time I had children (a birth control oversight that completely altered my life — funny how that few monutes of ecasty can have so many lasting effects!) mommys were momblogging and pinterest-logging and googly-eyed about the earthy pretty mommy they would be with thier organic homemade babyfood from flours they ground themselves in the $500 blender. Moms were making careers out of being moms, which I guess makes sense since we were a generation trainied and conditioned to have careers, but suddenly found ourselves having children. Our generation could write a manual entitled, DOOM and the art of wasted graduate degrees (with diapers!).

I knew I would never be one of those mompreneurs. I knew I would always be one of mees — a slightly disorganized, occasional momster who has a heart. I’m happy to be myself — because forcing yourself to craft when you hate crafting is a cruel punishment for all (remind me to tell you about the Teepee of Terror) because trying to be someone you are not teaches your children that being themselves isn’t good enough either.

But sometimes I still feel bad for not being the type of mom who relishes a sewing project and can whip up a from-scratch teepee befitting of a Land Of Nod catolog. Sometimes, I still worry I’m scarring my kid because I had a meltdown over spilled yogurt (A LOT OF SPILLED YOGURT). I still worry that my kid is going to resent me because I don’t want to play Darth Vader — I mean, I regularly am Darth Vader, and I regret to inform my son, that Luther — I am your mother <scary mouth-breathing rage>. And yes, I do worry that I will scar my sons by threatening to turn into SheHulk if they doesn’t behave (lord if they marry some docile, meek husband-pleasers I will have failed as a mother so help me!).

But on days when SheHulk reigns and I’ve just read a momblog about some woman who happily lives with her 3 small children in a 2-bedroom NYC apartment — perfectly decorated in the Anthropologie-style of purposefully cluttered undecoration —contentedly blogging about the joys of motherhood and making her lipstick withstand a splash park (instead, I worry about mine withstanding a SheHulk transformation, naturally), I feel the pangs of being the Not Good Enough Mother. On those days, I have to remind myself: being myself is good enough. And my kids — well Land of Nod furnuture will never fucking survive their Sumo Wrestling tournaments and Pinterest crafts will only result in SheHulk vs. The BabyHulks (with glue!).