“Comparison is the thief of joy” –Theodore Roosevelt

I’m so terrified of becoming a mum, but to be honest, I think I’m more terrified of being initiated into ‘the Motherhood.’ I’ve heard stories. I’ve witnessed events. I’ve seen the comment threads; those cruel, evil, comment threads. I’m frightened. It’s dangerous. But like most things, I’m hoping this noisy minority is exactly that… a minority.

The Motherhood are armed with self-righteousness. They win battles and wars behind computer screens. They disarm their opponents with tactless sneers. They draw their knives with comments of comparison, with eye rolls, with worrisome urgency or even worse, with absolute silence. Their agenda is merely of personal gain. It’s the gang of the ‘Motherhood’. It’s the land of hypocrisy and pretence. It’s a race of accolades. It’s the land of roaring and silent judgements. It’s an underbelly where social battles are waged. Frozen smiles and songs of sisterhood amount to a mere façade. Dare not question, however, the institute of the Motherhood. We are the hyper-overprotection of an already disadvantaged gender. Let’s all just pretend to like each other. It’s already worked thus far.

In the ‘Motherhood’, it’s each member’s entitlement to voice their opinion, regardless of how unwarranted, or even more disturbing, how accurate they are. The cruel intentions of the Motherhood are woven within every editorial cover and viral article, each time providing extra ammunition or desensitisation to what is acceptable. The media encourages more division within each page. They’ve worked out the formula: divide and conquer. Humour is often used to sugar-coat the countless ‘mother-bashings’ circulated on online forums. Wars are being provoked daily by the taunts and opinions of others. Let’s drop the blatant online bullying that is too often disguised as “education”. There’s nothing helpful, motivating or inspiring about it.

Why is it that in most areas of life, work and play, women seem to be our own worst enemies?

But… all is fair in love and war… and in the motherhood.

I dare not mention to a soul the name we’ve chosen. I don’t think I could tolerate the barrage of opinions. I dare not tell anyone about my secret cloth nappy collection, then too I’ll be overcome with eye rolls. Hide the breast pump, bottles and dummies! Hell hath no fury like an overcompensating member of the Motherhood.

I’m armed, I’m ready and I’m anticipating a Motherhood Mutiny. I have no idea what I’ve got myself in for… but hear me now; I will have no part of this. If you’re not building others up, then all you’re doing is pulling them down.

In our mutiny, I’ll do what’s right for me; you’ll do what’s right for you. We’ll be different in most things, but our intentions will be the same. We’ll be mothers with the same agenda. We’ll work out what’s best for us, sharing our ups and downs, while politely accepting unsolicited words of advice from well-meaning family and friends. Seasoned mothers will hopefully take us under their wings. They’ll be honest and nod with empathy, “we’ve been there”. We’ll laugh at funny names and child-rearing techniques I’d never dare to try, but we’ll never make each other feel embarrassed or silly… or most importantly, inadequate. I’ll continue to smile at the other mum at the park, regardless if there’s any recognition returned. I will ask for help and I will ask for advice, then I’ll probably do the opposite… but that is still ok.

Welcome to my Motherhood. You don’t even have to be a mother to join. Here, your womanhood isn’t defined by your abilities to procreate. Here, our motherhood needs no justifications. Here, sisterhood exists beyond lip-service. Here is where you are enough, where I am enough… where we have always been enough. We will not be divided. We will not be conquered. We are taking back the motherhood.

I’m now 38 weeks. Soon I’ll be flung into the deep end of Motherhood. I hope I won’t be swimming alone.

 “If you feel threatened by another, keep sending them encouragement until you are healed.” – B. C. Houston

38 Weeks

“He calls me beautiful like it’s my name.”

I am the pinnacle of beauty… thy fair, pregnant one. A paradigm of the childbearing form. A tour de force of propagation. Beseech thee, oh fair rounded bellied one. I am beauty. Veins ache and bulge from my whiskery lower limbs. Slumber is afflicted with aches. Urination is repeated in the midnight hours. Un-lady like vapours bellow frequently. Dog is frightened. The elixir of youth, pear and prune, do not relieve intestine confinements. I am beauty. Thy rash, in which is only bestowed on 1% of gestating women, has been blessed unto thee, stomach and bosom. I am anointed with an emulsion of steroid to appease the yearning to rip thee skin apart with nails. Bosoms are sacrificed in weakness in attempt to salvage stomach from beauty scars. I am beauty. I breathe laboriously. Thy movement is restricted. Lower limbs continue to flourish with new growth. Male companion refuses to assist the harvest of thy leg hair. Flexibility is futile. Witch Doctor man uses needles to relieve angst. Potions of raspberry leaf and fish oil continue to be consumed in preparation for fast birth and smart offspring. I glow with an aura of sweat. I flush with heat. I eat like swine. Child is now engaged. Thy bag is urged to be packed. Fear grips the back of my neck and holds me hostage. I am the chipped vase, the broken mirror, the cracked porcelain. I am the bearer of hope, the keeper of sorrow. Dust and bones, heart and soul. I am the possessor of life. I am beauty.

If this is beauty, then beauty is a cruel, fickle vixen.

“Note to self: I am enough.”

37 Weeks