I turned 29 on Sunday, and I’m still happily single and child-free. I thought I’d have at least a few more years before I got dragged into the dreaded Mommy Wars. But no.
One of the community posters at Feministing wrote last week about issues she encountered while attending a baby shower. Many of the comments tended to sympathize with the writer, suggesting non-conforming, non-commercial ways to celebrate the coming birth of a child. In the spirit of “OMG, I need a drink to get through this!” I left a comment that I freely admit I should have expressed differently. Out of all the anti-commercialized-shower comments, mine was the one that got called out for being “matrophobic” and “sexist”… which is pretty funny if you know me. Kind of like if someone called Sacha Baron Cohen inhibited. (I also got accused of having an abortion.)
It’s ironic that a post about how one reconciles personal beliefs and established cultural ritual brought out some defensiveness about personal choices. I’m truly sorry that at least some commenters felt like those of us who dislike the traditional shower thing were attacking them. And knowing that, for every person who comments, there have to be at least a few dozen who read but don’t comment, that’s potentially a lot of women that I put on the defensive. I am sorry. And I sympathize with them – mommies get a lot of crap in our culture. They’re silly, obsessed with poopies and day-care, and they wear goofy high-waisted jeans. None of that is accurate or fair to women who’ve taken on the thankless job of rearing the continuation of the human race.
But what I would like for the mommies to understand that we never-married, child-free women can get pretty defensive about the cultural stereotypes to which we’re subjected, too. We’re alcoholic sluts who hate children, after all. Let’s start with the word “child-free,” which I understand is a loaded term. It suggests that children are some awful plague to be avoided. I don’t think that… But I also don’t like the connotations behind the word “childless.” I’m not “less” anything. I like my life just fine. And honestly, my future children will probably also be far better off if they wait a few years to come along.
This is what’s happened to me at baby showers I’ve attended in the past: Other than young children, I’m the only one there without kids. There are no men (because why would Dad-to-Be need to concern himself with diapers and onesies?). The conversation inevitably turns to what I call the Gruesome Labor-Story Bonding Ritual, in which the attendees take turns one-upping one another with, well, gruesome labor stories – as if it will really comfort Mom-to-Be to hear all about her co-worker’s 19-hour push. And, of course, any woman who hasn’t had a child (by choice or circumstance) can’t contribute to the conversation and must quietly content herself with her blue- or pink-iced cake square. I feel invisible.
Many mothers would say the same. One of the things that bugs me most about shower culture is its ritualistic transformation of Woman to Mommy, with no identity apart from her child. But, while that’s vaguely disturbing to me, I can absolutely see how the shower ritual is a comfort to some people. That’s why we have rituals in the first place – to mark transitions. And if a traditional shower, complete with gendered gifts and goofy games, is a meaningful way for you to celebrate this momentous new thing in your life, then by all means go for it.
But please don’t judge me for feeling differently. When I have children, my dream shower will go like this: first of all, it will be mixed-gender, preferably with a football game and plenty of beer (non-alcoholic for future-preggers me). During commercials and half-time I will open any presents – hopefully, practical stuff. Screw the cutesie clothes my kid’s just going to barf on anyway – give me diapers and bibs. Hand-me-downs and used items are preferred. My theme will be “stuff that doesn’t show baby barf stains.” There will be no cake squares. The Husband to be Named Later will help with the thank-you cards.
Recently, I went to a shower that I was dreading (given my past experience) and I was pleasantly surprised. It was for one of my oldest friends, who’s due in about a month. I think that the difference was that all but one of the women present hadn’t had kids. (Which meant no Gruesome Labor-Story Ritual. Instead we talked about sex. Much better.) It was truly a celebration of my friend’s milestone. Most of the gifts were things like diapers, lotion, shampoo or diaper bags. The one cheesy game we played was actually pretty subversive: helping Mom-to-Be by writing our own thank-you notes… the funnier, the better. I had fun sending up the conventional thank-you: “Every time the baby has a poopy diaper, I will think of you” – and so did everyone else. And we talked about non-baby stuff.
But the best part was when my friend movingly spoke about the changes happening within her body and soul during her pregnancy. She said that, if she didn’t believe in God already, the biological miracle happening inside her would have made her a believer. Isn’t that what it should be about? A celebration of and support for this life-changing event in her and her husband’s lives, regardless of cake squares?
It’s disappointing that women with children and women without children feel like we have to justify our choices to one another. I don’t feel like mothers are my enemy. (Except for the one who called me a matrophobic sexist on Feministing. She needs to never talk to me again.) Just as women should be able to choose when to have children, they should be able to choose how. I’m not going to condescend to asking an expectant mother whether she’s thought through the cultural implications of her all-pink baby shower, because it’s really none of my frakking business. Goodness knows that mothers have enough societal judgment to deal with.
In return, I’d like to ask that the Mommies cut me a little slack. I’m not a mommy-hater, I’m not a baby-hater. And though I haven’t been through a 19-hour labor, I’m still perfectly capable of understanding on a small level what they’re going through.
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