Our Worst Mothers, Ourselves

Women: Please stop telling other women what to do. Let us settle (or not) for Mr. Good Enough. Let us become moms at 45 should we so choose. Don’t tell me why I shouldn’t be a working mother (or why I shouldn’t stay at home). Don’t try to scare me with poor statistics and bad science. And, as angry and frustrated as you get at other women sometimes, don’t tell me how you would like to punch some of us in the face.

What’s going on? I love having women in my life, from my closest friends to new acquaintances, still really strangers, online. I appreciate genuine concern and insights. But increasingly I have to wonder, have we become our own worst mothers?

Certainly, if we’ve experienced anything, we know better. We know there is more than one way to live a life as a woman, as confusing as it can be, and more than one path to get to where we’d like to go, even if we don’t get there. We know we can plan to have things work out one way, and they go another. When that happens, what I need most of all is information, constructive feedback, and understanding, if not loving support. What I need least of all is name-calling and moral certitude.

I am thinking about this after a series of virtual catfights on Twitter between women over who said what (in 140 characters or less) to whom and when. I could barely follow them enough to make out what the hoopla was about. In real life, women interrupt each other, we argue, we laugh (loudly), we mock ourselves more than anyone else. But Madeleine Albright said there is a special place in hell for women who do not help other women, and it makes me sad that a current dynamic in books, blogs, and social networks often plays to our demons, not to our better selves. It’s certainly easier for some of us to be rude or downright abusive when we wouldn’t even recognize one another passing on the street.

I also am thinking about how women treat other women after receiving a gracious and generous note from a dear friend. She balanced thoughtful advice and concern from her own experience with an offer of real life support: “I want to be one of your friends who reminds you…that it’s going to be a challenging juggling act to take care of your personal life while nurturing what’s next in your career, and your friends like me are here to support you. I’m good with solving the practical stuff, so please take advantage of me!” She clearly thought I could use some help, and she didn’t make me feel bad about it.

I’ve made mistakes in my life and decisions that some people would likely abhor (some of which are documented in my memoir, co-authored with two other women). We didn’t set out to write a How To book or  to suggest that our winding and bumpy journeys to love and motherhood are the only way to go. Or the best way to go. What I at least intended to do in sharing my story was to show that no path is perfect, that none of us have all the answers, that girlfriends can be powerful in your life, that you’re never too old to hope, that you’re never too old to f—k up, and that being true to yourself and your own desires — and acting on those desires — can sometimes create a kind of magic. Maybe. Who knows for sure? I sure don’t. And I don’t think anyone else does, either.