I like to match kids to their parents at the park. Its a game begging to be played because of how the players are positioned. At the park, the parents gather around on the outskirts of this magical little world happening right in front of us- or if youre a Dad, you miss it all because you are disassociating into your phone.
A tiny blonde girl, dressed in an outfit that is cute and hip, her hair in braids, her face clean and scrubbed, I match to the thin blonde woman in a perfectly styled, on trend outfit, carrying a leather zip up diaper bag and wearing sunglasses. This type of mom usually comes with a tall fraternity looking man who stands next to her, scrolling on his phone. I can see their wedding, their engagement photos- the two of them wearing complimentary colors, posed to be candid shots, as if a photographer just happened upon them in some remote nature setting and followed them around, snapping away on their camera. And now the product of their carefully curated life, a perfect little girl, allowing them to cross children off the list, right under get married.
I fought hard for that kind of life when I found out I was pregnant with Noah. I understood the assignment. Once you have children you have to do things a certain way, give up things, adopt new things, if you dont your child will fail out of school and become an alcoholic slob who worships Satan. I decided to throw myself into domestic life. I started by watching YouTube videos of mom vloggers. These mothers bake sourdough bread and take you thrift shopping with them. Id leave my body and enter another realm where everything is on a schedule thats written out on a whiteboard that hangs in the kitchen- the most prominent room of the house because that is where Mom lives. Mom is in charge of the whiteboard- without her everything would descend into madness. Mom is the thing holding it all together and this is why Mom is a sacred being. She wakes up hours before anyone else to do Pilates and make herself a coffee before showtime. Shes whipping up pancakes, boiling oatmeal and slicing up fruit, carefully arranging everything on a plate with designated sections- the cut up bananas in one ear of the koala, the other ear the sliced strawberries, the face of the koala the pancakes. The oatmeal will sit in a bowl and will be ignored, protested against even. I was ready for this, I just needed to buy a whiteboard.
Id watch them as they explained in detail their childs temper tantrum, prefacing it all with, “I wont show them melting down on camera because I want to respect their privacy.” Id watch them change their diapers, give them baths, watch as they fed them carrots they had grown in the backyard and had pulverized into a paste, bottling it in mason jars with labels. I was enthralled. Id ignore the thought that these vlogs are monetarily based, all of them sponsored by the same companies using social media as a marketing tool. Id ignore when they would pause from vacuuming to tell me about this skincare line that they absolutely love and if I wanted to purchase some myself I could use their discount code listed in the comments. Go back to vacuuming, Id think, what about the bathroom? Is that next?
My YouTube algorithm started to get weird and I ended up in Japan, where mothers created videos where they showed all the same things as the American mothers, but they never spoke or were really seen on camera, they remained a mystery to the viewer. Set to pleasant background music- the gentle dings of bells and guitar strings, you watch just their hands creating their husband and childs bento boxes for lunch. Rolling sushi, steaming rice, frying meat, and then carefully arranging it all in a cute little contraption. Their thoughts, the small bones are soft so its good to eat€subtitles narrating. Then they would begin breakfast, which would require just as much effort and once every single IKEA dish and pan had been used, they spent the next hour scrubbing everything clean and returning it back to its place in cabinets and drawers organized with IKEA products that had to have been engineered by someone with chronic OCD. By then the sun would have risen and Dad and child would emerge to a hot four course breakfast in a spotless kitchen.
The Japan mommy vlogs are fever dreams. The organization, the care, the thoughtfulness and the determination to live it over and over each day for their family- it was incredibly admirable in a way that I knew was absolutely unattainable for me. They must enjoy boiling quail eggs at two am, right? Or is this an expectation put on them? I wish I could ask, their unspoken answer coming up as subtitles over chimes, SEND HELP, it would read across the screen.
There was one video I shared with my own mother, bless her heart, who watched it even though she was very unsure why she was watching it- and why I was, why anyone was. In it a tiny, thin, pale Asian woman cleans a bathroom using the high pressure shower head as a power washer. She sprays the whole thing down as if it was a car wash, scrubbing the toilet, the sink, the shower, the floor, the mirrors, everything that was already perfectly clean to begin with and then hose it all down again. Squeegees, rubber gloves, sponges, unmarked detergents in IKEA bottles. The whole thing is like watching a one woman orchestra. “Did you see how clean the bathroom was?”€I asked my Mom. “I did, it was very clean,”€ my Mom responded, and I could hear her later telling my Dad, “Stephan, why on earth are people filming themselves cleaning toilets? They make money off that? Is that a Japan thing?”€
Back in the United States, I fell in step with the American Moms who are so stressed out and exhausted, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. Some of them even homeschooled their children, explaining to us viewers how special this time was, but also they know whats best, they cant risk a private, or God forbid, public school teacher filling their perfect angels brain with propaganda. Their angel learning alongside rambunctious, rabid, feral children? Absolutely not. They wear aprons, they create a bubble and keep everyone inside it, safe and on course, while also filming it all and broadcasting it over the internet for millions of strangers to watch, to subscribe, to join their lifes journey alongside them.
I learned from these videos that children, babies specifically, need quite a lot of accessories, it is an endless list of items these Moms swear by. Cloth contraptions that you can put your baby in, strapping them to your chest so you can wear them while you do the dishes. Strollers that look like small SUVs, diaper bags with forty-two pockets so you will be able to carry everything your baby needs. Suntan lotion, organic animal cookies, bottles of milk or juice boxes, band aids, a change of clothes, extra shoes, a hat, a jacket, diapers, a copy of their immunization records- an endless list of things to buy, things to organize and keep track of, things that you will swear you would fail in your role as a mother without.
I compared all this to how I function in the world. Barely ever bringing a purse anywhere, shoving my car keys in a motorcycle boot or attaching them to the belt loop of my jeans. Throwing my wallet in the inside pocket of my jean jacket. Walking around the world with nothing. I couldnt have nothing anymore, I realized I needed everything.
Because I was pregnant during a global pandemic, quarantined and stuck, in my isolation I came to view these YouTube moms as my spiritual guides on my journey to motherhood. I listened to their labor stories, all of the complications they endured, their tears over not being able to experience a natural birth and instead having to be sliced open and then stitched up again. How depleted and overwhelmed they were but how its all worth it. I wonder how these Moms will handle their childs teenage years and onward, once their child becomes a person of their own will, when they wont be in control of their little person- how they dress, what they eat, what they read, what they watch. They seemed to revel in this control, this power of being the nucleus of the family.
I will be the nucleus, I thought.
I bought furniture, an expensive dining room tableœfor all the holiday meals and family dinners and memories we will create. I made our house into a home. Silvio painted Noahs room blue and I filled it with plants and stuffed animals and books. I opened the window so the sunlight could come in, looked out onto the tree right outside that Noah will climb when hes older. I fully embraced domestic life with open, hopeful arms.
Domestic life did not embrace me back. Domestic life bitch slapped me. My free spirit was torched in routine and complete and utter monotony. Silvio seemed to ascend into his role of being a family man. He would brag about us at work, proudly showing clients during business dinners pictures of his beautiful family. He would come home completely stressed out from work and I would enjoy putting all that at ease for him with the dinner I prepared, nudging him to relax and watch the game while holding Noah, drink a beer and play video games with his friends after Noah had gone to sleep. I could see that all of this only added to Silvios life, he felt successful, like he was doing it right. Id scrub dishes and fantasize about the Asian womans power washed, squeaky clean toilet.
I worked from home as a reservationist alongside taking care of Noah during this time. I would balance my work laptop on my thigh while giving Noah a bath and going back and forth with a woman in New York who wanted to seat all twenty of her guests at the same table and why on earth was I telling her she couldnt. I would run between rooms, giving Noah a bottle, answering a call and working- my headset permanently attached to my skull. Attend zoom meetings while watching Noah pour an entire gallon of milk on the floor. Watch as a river of milk surged towards me, the liquid splitting when it hit a table leg. “Of course! I would gladly work an extra few hours on Mothers Day to help out!” Id be saying into the camera, smiling, as milk covered my shoes.
“I am so jealous you get to work from home and be with our little guy,”€ Silvio would always tell me, not seeming to notice that I hadnt showered in four days and was wearing the same ratty sweats from last week. The house became my bubble, but I wasnt enjoying or thriving in it at all. Id re-watch the YouTube moms with their perfectly tousled hair and cute overalls in the middle or a pumpkin patch, smiling on camera with their kids. I kept going.
I did house projects like painting rooms or switching out all the gold doorknobs with sleek wrought iron ones. Silvio thought all this was pointless, “we are renting, why would we update their house?”€His logic fell on my deaf ears. I planted flowers, I posted pictures of my happy family online. Silvio proposed and I felt nothing. I changed my last name to Silvios on Facebook. It was Noahs last name, and thats why I wanted it. I wanted to belong to Noah. I wore the ring until I absentmindedly lost it. Silvio just shrugging like oh well. I avoided marriage and wedding talk with everyone who incessantly asked and so happily too, but I was unable to join in their excitement.
My future French mother in law moved in with us and I would hide in the closet, drinking wine, the only thing that helped me endure living with her. Under the hazy veil of wine, I was able to listen to her stories of being a victim of the world, raising Silvio alone, scraping by with no help from anyone and how lucky I must feel having Silvio be such an involved and loving father and living in this big house and buying dining room tables. Without the wine, the guilt would have taken me out. “Ze ozer day I waz talking to my friend. Showing her picturez of you and Silvio, she waz going on and on about how beautifulz you both are,”€ I smiled at her. “I told her yez, but zey didn’t do anyzing to earn that. Zey are just lucky.”€ I frowned. That was my future mother in law.
The one thing I did that was truly of my own internal instinct, was the first item I bought Noah. A book titled Life Doesnt Frighten Me€written by Maya Angelou and illustrated with paintings by Basquiat. Inside I wrote to Noah:
Noah,
You were born at a time when the whole world was afraid. Before cribs or diapers or little knit baby hats- I bought this book for you. You have been brave since the moment you were born. You helped me to be brave. Never forget that whatever life brings- you aren’t scared. You will get through it. Your heart is courageous.
I love and believe in you endlessly,
Mom
I had to stop myself from signing it “Jenn”€realizing for the first time that I wouldnt be “Jenn”€to Noah, I would be “Mom.”€ An identity I was terrified of, and that I was wearing like I was trying on clothes in a department store- nothing was fitting right.
In the park, I match the kids to their parents. The little brown eyed boy with the golden hair, wearing a Nirvana t-shirt and a knit winter hat with a pom pom at the end, running full speed towards me, his mother.
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