This long-form poem recalls, reflects on, rages about, and reframes ways that I have felt, experienced, perceived, and observed blame linked to being a mother, realizing my mothering, and navigating the challenges of perceptions of idealized motherhood from my past and current places of positionality including being considered an immigrant, single, married, divorced, blended family, young, and geriatric mother. It’s inspired by the opening of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)” which begins: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
*Trigger warning: abortion, swearing
All The Ways, Always – An Ode to Mother Blame
oh mother, how have i been blamed
let me count the ways
but it may
take a while
do you even have
that kind of time
that kind of space
to let me pace
or more like race
through it all
the pitter patter
bitter battle
rattle rattle
treat like cattle
peek-a-boo
how dare you
and coochie coo
from the there there years
through the it’s ok’s
and all of the come here’s
and the don’t worry’s, i’m coming
and the door slams
and the i hate you’s
and the more door slams
and the i’m sorry’s
and i love you’s
along with all the
where’s their mother?
and who’s their mother?
oh, her
that makes sense
look at them
look at her
look at you
look
look
look
oh, all those looks
you know the ones
accompanied by
the tutting tongues
and the raised eyebrows
and the heavy breaths
and the shakes of heads
and the tone filled sighs
and what about the whispers
and the ever so thinly veiled barbs
that sting for a moment
or minutes
or hours
or days
or years
or forever
and the thoughtless comments from oh so many
that suck the wind
from your weather beaten and stitched back together mothering sails
long after the statements have passed
thrown out by those
who are holier
than thou
and thee
and ye
and me
do you have the time?
you do?
well then
sit back
but don’t relax
and do not get comfortable
because there’s no comfort to be found here
and you likely won’t enjoy the ride either
but don’t tune me out
and don’t let your attention wander away
let my words make you angry
let them make you livid
let them make you mad as hell
let them make your empathy swell
until it spills over
into rage
as you listen along
and think of all
the blames and shames
you have withstood
and dodged
and wrestled with
and count the ways
count all the ways
you have been blamed
you have felt blamed
you worried that you might be blamed
as a mother
some ways may be the same as mine
many might be perhaps
i bet
if we wanted to
we could play
mom blame bingo
so stamp your cards
pens at the ready
eyes down
here we go
for me it started well
before
it began really
before i was a mother
when a boy
once said to me
i know your kind
you’ll be a single mum
by the time you’re sixteen
this was said to me
by an eighteen year old
who carried a skateboard
to look cool
but i never saw him
ride it
so i was blamed
and shamed
as a potential probable possible
but not promising mother
long before i ever stepped foot
into the land of motherhood
time passed
i grew
and during my early years
of being sexually active
despite my conscientious contraceptive planning
i had one pregnancy ‘scare’
why is this a term ‘we’ use?
what is there to be scared of?
our bodies?
our sexual urges?
babies?
terminations?
mothering?
judgement?
stigma?
shame?
blame?
perhaps all of it
more time passed
and at one point
in my early twenties
i found out that
i was unexpectedly
pregnant
that i would be
or could be
a mother
i realized
immediately
that i couldn’t do it
that i didn’t want to do it
and so i decided not to do it
and when i told
my literal and figurative on/off boyfriend at the time
of my circumstance
he asked me first
with a blame-filled mouth
before i could even tell him
of my decision
‘is it mine?’
and all I could think was
i bet even adam asked eve
that same question
in the garden
when she told him
that she was pregnant
well, she was blamed and banished, after all
why not besmirched too
anyways
i had to go to my male family doctor
to address my situation
he knew my mum and dad
whom i also couldn’t possibly tell
and i had to ask the doctor
to help me
to not be a mother
and he said
‘you know, your baby has a heartbeat’
i thought of it as a potential could be baby
not a definitive was a baby
and so i ignored his comment
weathered the ensuing lengthy awkward pause
and his attempt to shame me
and carried on
with my plan
when i eventually got to the hospital
they draped me in a gown
that made me look just like all the others
and so made me seem to them just like all the others
and they inserted an ultrasound device in my vagina
without question
and though i was scared
and alone
and scared
and worried
and scared
and vulnerable
and scared
and clueless
and scared
and powerless
and scared
i felt like i had to act like a ‘grown woman’
or what i thought one was supposed to be back then
and so i suffered
just like i had heard mothers were supposed to do
that was their lot
and i was having a run in with it
and the ultrasound person said
‘look, there’s your baby’s heartbeat’
in the same tone that the doctor had used
but i ignored them too
weathered the ensuing lengthier and much more awkward pause
and their attempt to shame me
and i carried on
with my plan
eventually though
after more years passed
it occurred
i became a mother
of course
there are many, many, many, many oh, so very, very many ways
that one might
become a mother
or come to be mothering
but my acquiring of that identity
was not exactly planned
the first time round
and if only
i had a dollar
for every time i heard
the cringe-provoking, gag-inducing, earth swallow me up now wishing,
‘but weren’t you using anything?’
i was expecting
but others had expected more
of me
even now
when i tell people
my eldest’s age
(whom, as a side note, is the best thing to ever have happened to me, he made me a mother)
i still see the same expression
cross over people’s faces
though they may try to suppress it
it clearly conveys
without speaking
couldn’t you control
your cycle
your fertility
your reproductivity
your vagina
your cervix
your uterine lining
your urges
your promiscuity
your big fat juicy ripe seedy sordid eggs
and keep your big fat juicy ripe seedy sordid legs
together
couldn’t you control
your self
when i went to my local walk-in clinic
to confirm what my store bought pregnancy tests were telling me
and i stepped on the scale to be weighed
like something trawled in
from the illicit undertow
the nurse raised her eyebrows
and exclaimed
‘god, how pregnant are you?’
i’ve never had a body type that would be described as skinny
but i wasn’t overweight
still i was shamed
the doctor came into the room
confirmed my pregnancy
and asked what i planned to do
i told him i planned to have it
and he said, ‘good choice’
judged twice
double whammy mammy
i’d been officially pregnant
for only minutes
and hadn’t yet left the building
they say life is never the same
after becoming a mother
they say a lot of things
case in point
i didn’t have to wait
for my baby to be born
to become other
being pregnant was enough
to ostracize me
i was barely
six weeks pregnant
when the words
‘you’re pregnant’
were directed at me
externally
nothing would be visible
for months
but i knew
i’d been told
and so i shared the words
‘i’m pregnant’
with others
that’s all
just words
but it turned out that being pregnant
was enough of a
troubling status change
(is that why they say she’s got herself in some ‘trouble’?)
to render me different
other
less than
ineligible to be considered
still young
single
able
to socialise
friends stopped calling
distanced themselves
as they carried on living
within a world consisting
of early-career jobs
pondering post-graduate education
traveling
partying
dating
casual fucking
sex wasn’t the exclusionary factor
we didn’t judge each other for that at all
as i remember
but the potential reproductive results of it
well, that was just too much
i called my parents
in another country
in another time zone
to tell them
i started by saying i had some news
immediately my mother blurted
‘oh god, you’re not pregnant are you?’
my lack of response
my pregnant pause
became my confirmation
my father couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t speak to me for months
my mother told me
that he left the room
too ashamed to stay
when she relayed the news
to family and friends
my potential mothering
brought that much shame on them
at christmas
he called
i was seemingly forgiven
in the spirit (but not in person) of the season
and so my pregnancy continued
and eventually
and what an event
the following summer
i gave birth
and was left alone
in a hospital room
for hours on end
with my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful baby
and when they woke
and started to cry
i hadn’t a clue what to do
so i buzzed for the nurse
when she came in
i pointed out the obvious
‘umm, they’re crying’
‘they probably want feeding or changing,’ she replied
i looked at her wide-eyed
she stared right back
i’d never breastfed a baby
nor seen anyone do it
not in any great detail
i’d also never
changed a diaper
‘didn’t you have younger brothers or sisters?’
the nurse asked disbelievingly
disbelieving me
‘well, yes, but I didn’t look after them,’ i replied
it was my own fault
it was all my fault
that i didn’t know what to do
or perhaps my mother was to blame
‘you shouldn’t hold them too much either’
the nurse said, ‘you’ll spoil them’
my baby was hours old
and i was even loving them wrong
i ignored the nurse
carried on holding my baby just the same
they’re nearly 24 now
and a great hugger
and very unspoilt
i went home the day after having them
and the blame continued
throughout those early blur of days
from nurses
home visitors
family
strangers in the street
despite me
being the person that made my baby
and got up for hours every night
to see to their needs
then did the same
delirious with sleep withdrawal
batting imaginary flies away
from the corner of my eye
during each day
and though i felt
at the time
that i did not know what i was doing
i know now
that i actually understood
my baby best of all
yet still i heard
in that oh so tender first week
your baby’s
too hot
too cold
they need a hat
they don’t like wearing hats
you’re burping them too soft
too hard
their car seat straps are too tight
too loose
the sun’s in their eyes
they need to get more exposure to sunlight
they’re hungry
they’re not hungry
you should feed them on demand
you should feed them every two hours
keep their room cool
warm
keep a calm quiet home
let them get used to a noisy house
let them get used to being alone
keep them close
and don’t let them get a flat head
and so on
and so on
and so on
i started to run a fever
i went to the male doctor who had told me i was pregnant
at the beginning of it all
i was exhausted
in pain
sick
‘hormonal’ (whatever that means)
he responded to my symptoms
by asking me
if I was coping
i took my baby to the clinic
run by the female doctors
that had provided my maternal care
i told the female doctor what had happened
she ordered tests
i had an infection
she gave me a prescription for medication
advice for dealing with looming mastitis
asked me if I’d like to join their practice
i said yes
and ever since
no one in that clinic
has ever blamed my fevers
on mothering hysteria
i went on
to have two more children
at this point in time
they are 23, 19 and 14
i’ve been a mother for almost 24 years
i turned 48 a week after first presenting this poem
so at the time of writing these words
half of my life
has been spent
being told
by others
that i was
a young mum
an immigrant mum
an unmarried mum
a married mum
a separated mum
a divorced mum
a single mum
a blended-family mum
a geriatric mum
but all i’ve ever wondered
if at all
‘cause i’ve been far too busy
being
doing
caring
carrying
wiping
cleaning
feeding
bathing
teaching
cuddling
teeth brushing
and putting to sleeping
was am i a good mum?
‘cause it was never
really clear
and in the few quiet moments
that have come along
i’ve found
that blame
or fear of it
has left the sticky mark of something
in its seat
when it briefly leaves
to keep its space
as it were
and that’s doubt
hollow
grey
cloudy
boundless
thought-churning
doubt
but don’t you pout
and don’t you cry
hold your sighs
and wipe your eyes
‘cause you’ve got
a bloodied and bruised
but hardy heart
just like mine
to
thump thump
bump bump
gush gush
enjoy the present
and not rush
hush hush
don’t say a word
mamas gonna buy you
everything
haven’t you heard
well, she may not buy it
but she’ll certainly pay for it
through a painful absorption of
proclamations
projections
presumptions
of blame
from
you shouldn’t eat that
to breast is best
except when it’s not
to you’ve introduced solids
too soon
or too late
to are you doing enough tummy time
and is their bed time routine just right
to i’m sorry, i have to leave work early today
to i’m sorry, i have to take today off
or work from home
or hand it in tomorrow
to all the forgotten
team practices
sports equipment
musical instruments
and all the fucking forms they need
the medical appointments
tutoring sessions
lunches
the right shoes
the right outfit
their hats
their medication
their sunscreen
their water bottle
even if it wasn’t said
outright
i knew it
i could feel it
blame
the kids are late
i’m blamed
they get
cavities
rashes
acne
coughs
runny noses
uncombed hair
dandruff
lice
bad breath
dirty nails
stains on their clothes
mud on their shoes
creases in their shirts
messy rooms
or the whole damn house is filthy
if they’re overweight
underweight
overdressed
underdressed
struggling in school unassessed
excelling educationally without giftedness being addressed
if their homework’s late
(why do I get emails about their missing homework, it’s not my fucking homework!)
if i don’t volunteer or donate (what a lazy mother, she doesn’t ever help out, doesn’t she care?)
if i volunteer or donate too much (what a fundraising narcissist, doesn’t she have a life or any friends?)
not looking hot enough (what a slob!)
too done up (what a slut!)
not supportive enough
a pushy mom
not answering the school office call when my kid is sick
or just plain old kid is sick
any and all
injuries and illnesses
there seems to be an implied negligence on my part
or a felt one
going to the doctor’s office too much
or not going enough
applying what pediatricians or child psychologists recommend
or not following my own ‘instincts’ and always looking to others for guidance
or being a downright system draining mothering hypochondriac
being a helicopter, a tiger, or a bulldozer mom
an almond mom
a crunchy mom
or a scrunchy mom
a city mom
a country mom
a work-too-much mum
or a stay-at-home mom
it’s just too much
eventually my mental space became jammed
it isn’t infinite it turns out
my hair began to thin
it turned grey
and then white
my chest began to tighten
my bones to ache
with the rhetorical
figurative
literal
and the just plain old real fucking heavy weight of
unrealistic
unattainable
unachievable
and at times, un-fucking-bearable
expectations of mother-fucking-hood
i was being set up to fail
i was being set up to be judged
like it was a sport
mom spotting
and, because l’oreaI and mother mary
i just wasn’t fucking worth it
positive acknowledgements did not flow
well done’s
and let me help you’s
and good for you’s
and great job’s
were few and far between
i know
because i remember them
yet still i carried on
but as my children grew
their actual or potential small person problems
turn into actual or potential big person problems
i found myself mothering through topics like
sex
consent
contraception
sti’s
relationships
alcohol
drugs
cigarettes
vapes
college applications
graduations
and mental health support from all the expectations
placed on these poor little kids
as they moved
closer to the age
i was when i had them
than i was myself
yet even though
they’ve acquired autonomy
it doesn’t feel like
blame has stopped
it hasn’t dissipated
it’s dispersed
expanded
the sins of the fathers
may be visited upon the children
but the sins of the children
are seemingly
always the mother’s fault
i asked friends
last week
to reflect on
how much of their mothering time
had been spent
experiencing, feeling, avoiding
guilt, blame, judgement and shame
those who responded
told me that it was a lot
like, a lot a lot
The majority of it
but both commented
that they thought a lot of it was ‘self-inflicted’
which I get
except that it’s not
is it?
it’s pernicious
poisonous
pestilent
pervasive
persistent
patronizing
patriarchy
that seeps into you
over a lifetime
like a rusted old tap
that just won’t stop
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
dripping
so much so
that you blame yourself
for feeling blamed!
wtf
however, after drafting these words
that I’m sharing with you
i reflected back on them
and noticed that my text contained multiple
yets
buts
howevers
despites
and so what I hope you take away
from my poem
is testament to resistance
because here we all are
holding it together
turning out whole
wonderful
amazing
compassionate
kind
loving
and, thank god, imperfect
humans all the same
and what a shame
what a crying
sighing
hands in the air throwing
foot stomping
spit on the ground
inside voice screaming
shame
all this fucking blame is
so don’t let it rob you of any joy any more
invest in lots of big fat fuck you’s
lots and lots and lots and lots of big loud spitting hot read-my-lips fuck you’s
share kudos with other moms
give them the props that you never got
make the space
reach out
connect
isolation breeds contempt, not familiarity
familiarity generates
relationships
sharing
acknowledgement
support
bonds
friendship
allies
community
in another word, love, for other mothers
which leads me to my last perhaps trite but just feels so right point
try to focus on and embrace the positive
that indescribable
thick
sticky
heart breaking
heart blooming
marvellously bloody messy
sloppy
wonderful
love
that being a mother can bring
easier said than done, i know
but remember it
feel it
perceive it
apply it
as a form of resistance to your own bombardment of blame
and like Elizabeth Barrett Browning would have us do
count the ways
count all the ways
you find and feel
experience and enact
that love
to get you through
- JourMS - 