Just the other day, my blog got featured as the best of “hot off the press” on the homepage of WordPress.com. I have no idea how it happened, but it created an insane influx of traffic to Diapers and Divinity. By 8:00 a.m., I had well over 500 hits, and finished out the day at unprecedented numbers. I felt temporarily famous, and it was pretty cool. Most of the feedback was positive, but at 11:00 a.m., I received this comment in my Inbox. I’m assuming the writer had perused the blog and my profile and such. (I edited out one phrase for the sake of decency.)
So you ended up being just a mother.
Just another mother, like a chimp, a cow, an elephant, a whale, just another mother, like an insect, or an octopus, or a worm. Just another mother.
Your kids will not thank you, your husband will not like you, your own mother will pity you for making her own same mistake.
Just another mother.
For a moment of frenzy, of uterine voracity, irrational and irreversible, you destroyed your body, your beauty, and your own intellect.
Parental-brain-atrophy-syndrome, where your brain biologically adjusts to the need of your infants, descending at their own subhuman level, with just one dimension, food, or perhaps two dimensions, food and feces.
You left your ambitions, your achievements, your potentials outside your life and outside the lives of those who really loved, only to become a receptacle of an unknown body of an unknown person that never will be yours, and to whom you will never belong. Strangers united in a pool of blood and dirt.
And dirt has become your life, and your life has become dirt. Urine, remains of food, excrements, diapers, vacuum cleaners, old soap, crusts, a life of dandruff and diseases, vaccine and lice, high school and drool.
You lost your dignity . . . garbage-in-garbage-out, a boomerang of boredom.
Do you remember who you were?
Do you realize your loss?
Nobody chooses prison voluntarily, except for mothers, except for you.
You chose the life of a slave in a cavern of dirt.
People around you, who know that you are just another mother, do have compassion for you, but no respect. They know all about your emptiness, your pain, your despair, all dressed in the robes of a Virgin Mary.
And a Virgin Mary you are not, because Mary was not a Virgin, and you are not a Mary.
You were manipulated into just another life wasted on the heap of trash of a lost humanity dedicated to popular procreation and proletarian proliferation, to please the leaders of a domain of plebeians.
The world lost you, and you lost the world.
Good bye, sad mothers, good bye, old cows, with dried-out utters and distorted hips, good bye, and so alone you all will die.
Um, wow. I know that my friends and regular readers might want to pull out your claws and start fighting, but let me tell you something. Never in my life have I felt more proud to be a mother than when I read this comment. I smiled and felt a complete inner confidence all the way through. Initially, I was a little bit shocked, but it quickly faded into an amused pleasure as I realized that I am so sure of what I am doing that these words didn’t even wound me in the least.
So I typed up a brief reply and pushed send:
As a simple response to your long comment:
Yes, the answer to almost all of your questions is yes. And I have no regrets. The only two points I wish to dispute are 1) the word “mistake,” since I entered motherhood admittedly a little fearfully, but absolutely intentionally, and 2) the claim that I will die alone, since I believe that my choice to honor the doctrine of family by building loving and nurturing relationships is my greatest guarantee against such an end.
I wish you all the best and hope you may be able to find your own kind of joy, even if you don’t understand mine.
Rather than rip this sad person to shreds, why not share with me your own testimony of motherhood? Let’s celebrate what we know and feel, despite and perhaps especially because of the way some people feel about our role. Seriously, I feel absolutely empowered. I know exactly who I am. I am a mother. And it feels WAY better than being famous for a day.