A Mother Comes out of the Closet

I am more than the sum of my two children. I am a person in my own right.

There, I’ve said it out loud. My mantra on the frequent occasions when I feel like a vanquished comic book character—The Invisible Mom. Drowning under a sea of banal chores and endless errands, I must strive to maintain a sense of self, or I might easily morph into that reluctant super heroine … The Facilitator. No job too mundane. No task too demeaning. No thanks expected.

There are many facets to being a mother, and on the privileged Westside of Los Angeles, where many of us don’t have to work for a living; we’ve silently agreed to keep to the pact that we are all utterly fulfilled by our lot. For some, this conspiracy is easier than for others. I know many, perfectly nice women who are completely satisfied with the task of creating perfect lives for their perfect children.

It really isn’t their fault, because children are like parasites. We give, give, give, and they take, take, take. I once made that statement at a ladies coffee and, unbeknownst to me, I was silently damned by many of those present. I have since learned to voice my true opinions only when I am in like-minded company. I believe that there are others like me. Hell, I know a grand total of two who mirror my opinions. We are mothers who love our children without question, but who have (or crave for) their own identity beyond their offspring. Popular opinion appears to dictate that any mother who does not devote herself, selflessly and entirely to enhancing the lives of her children is not doing her job.

I spend a healthy amount of time away from my children. Since my boys were infants I have left them with a nanny and waved a cheery goodbye, skipping down the driveway as I depart for an overseas adventure with my husband. He and I need ‘us’ time. Sure, we have a lot of ‘them and us’ time but every once in a while we need to reconnect. Alone. Together. However, I know people who never leave the house without kids in tow. These parents are with their children 24/7 until they are obliged, by law, to drop the little darlings off at school. These are the people you see in nice restaurants attempting to have a cozy dinner while appeasing a crying infant. Small wonder that their children are often clingy and uncomfortable being left with anyone else.

I have an urge to tell these mothers, “It’s not too late. You can get a sitter. You don’t have to do everything family style. Your kids will not die if they miss an activity/party/play date because you found something that you would rather do instead of drive them around.”

I struggle to comprehend why one (including me) would choose to attend the umpteenth, Fourth Grade Football game of the season (where the child spends the majority of his time on the bench) rather than choose, say, an afternoon at the spa, a peaceful hike, or to simply sit through a leisurely lunch without worrying how late they will be to kick off. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my time on the sidelines—it’s just that I have no burning desire to be there for every, single, game.