To Mask or Not to Mask

By Jennifer G.

So, I'm at a Christmas party and I'm so glad to be there.  My house is currently being run by a 4-year-old, an almost three year old and a 15-month-old.  My moments of adult interaction are limited and cherished to say the least.  I found myself in the kitchen surrounded by other moms and I felt relaxed and comfortable enough to be myself.  They were all talking about their kids, feeling fat, and their husbands' overly demanding sex drives . . .  standard female-only banter.  I start talking about the challenges of my daily life at home with the kids.  And I was being honest.  Sometimes I can't stand it.  I wish I could drop them off at a day care and head to a job that challenges my intellect and not only my sanity.

I wish I felt successful in a career and made money of my own.  I talked about how I felt my patience with them was running thin lately and how at times the incessant whining makes me want to stab my ear drums out with knitting needles.  I expressed feelings of exhaustion and my lack of bedroom inclination due to constant physical interaction with preschoolers.  I even embarrassingly admitted my recurrent fantasy of running through a field of flowers, barefoot, in a white sun dress, eyes closed, just running away from it all.  And I felt understood.  I felt my mommy-woes were being comprehended by like minds.  And I felt justified in my challenges.

That is until I walked away to get a refill.  For whatever reason I turned around and casually glanced back at the group of women I was just talking to. And I saw something disturbing.  I saw looks of judgment being passed back and forth between them, eyebrows raised and heads cocked to the side.

Words were being said without speaking.  Words about me.  Silent assessments that said something was wrong with me.  Obviously I can never know exactly what they were thinking.  But I do know exactly how it made me feel... isolated, judged and misunderstood.  And suddenly a revelation passed over me.  I had dared to take off my mask.  Letting my guard down and allowing my truest feelings to be expressed, I had been too honest. 

As mothers we are expected to fake it.  We can't let others know that sometimes being a mother is miserable.  We aren't allowed to express feelings of incompetence and depression.  We are mothers.  We are supposed to be grateful and positive at all times, never allowing others to know that we loose our minds, cry, scream and at times want to escape the very thing we are.

So before I rejoined the group, I quickly came to the conclusion I needed to re-mask.  I mentally reached into my pocket, shuffled past the truth, found my mommy-mask and reapplied.  I returned with a plastered smile and attempted to recant my previous presentation of reality.  I actually heard myself saying phrases like, "It's all worth it."  I was so mad at my own weak need to conform. Domesticity is a four letter word in my vocabulary, but this assertion stayed under the mask. 

I'm aware at times this mask is necessary for survival.  We can't always be honest and forthcoming about our feelings.  The mask is a handy accessory in times of self preservation when we aren't prepared to share truth about ourselves for any number of reasons.  However, the mommy-mask appears more often for the purposes of acceptance, comparison, and conformity.   Can a mother be weak when she should be strong?  Can a mother feel unfulfilled in her role rather than successful?  Can she love her children but feel imprisoned by their needs?  Can she send out smiling Christmas cards achieved only by threats of spankings?  Can she have secret fantasies of throwing Elmo in the oven?  Can she admit the existence of these feelings or must she mask them to fit in?  Can we stop making quick assessments and give others and ourselves the benefit of the doubt?  We're moms.  We do the best we can.  We try.  We fail.  We win.  We cry. We laugh.  We provide.  Must we also mask?

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