You Do Not Need to Determine What Type of Parent You Are.
Ten years ago, at a time when Mom’s blogs were growing in popularity and we were all supposed to feel united under the umbrella of survival, the Mommy Wars phenomenon broke out. These so-called wars, which have centered on how one chooses a parent, pits couch potatoes against working mothers, breastfeeding mothers versus formula feeding, mothers carrying babies versus stroller enthusiasts, and parents sleeping together versus cribs. users.
Although many vitriol were either fabricated or played out by the media , I have seen echoes of this in my own life. Parents – mostly mothers – were grouped into small tribes where they could feel approved and supported in their own particular set of parenting strategies. It is completely normal human action when faced with the life-changing transition of becoming a parent. But turning to each other for support, sympathy and advice, we also began to call ourselves this or that parent. We started comparing.
When my son was a baby, I knew not only if his little friends-babies were breastfeeding, but also how many months. I knew who was covered in cloth and who was sitting in those toxic disposable items (I can say that because he was one of them). I knew who cried until I fell asleep and who definitely did not.
It suddenly seemed to many of us that the mothers in our tribes do it much better than we do. Parenting, especially online, has become a competition.
This was compounded by Instagram “influencers” who began to show us how well we could raise children if we had free clothes and perfect lighting. Writer Catherine Jezer-Morton describes it this way in The Cut .
The age of influencers has led to a flawless life that everyone knows is painstakingly organized, but that we love to follow – and critically examine – anyway.
Pretty quickly, that was enough for all of us – their houses can’t look so beautiful all the time! – and “ real” mothers were looking for a new way of self-expression. Something that oozed “I’m doing a great job” but from the side “but guys, this is so difficult!”
This is how the “completely imperfect” movement was born. Jezer-Morton writes :
“Perfectly Imperfect” claims to reject the trap of perfectionism, and often appears alongside stories of the “journey” to self-acceptance or overcoming adversity. It is often used to describe a general approach to life: forget about the routine of a happy housewife and accept the chaos and love in your married life as they are.
Describing yourself as a “completely imperfect” parent implies self-acceptance, yes, but that still sounds false.
Now that my son is eight years old and we live in another state, I am happy to report that I have absolutely no idea if his friend Matthew was breastfeeding, or if his other friend Matthew was a baby in kindergarten or his other friend. Matthew began to eat solid foods by weaning as an infant. (There are many Matthews in our area.)
Better yet, I don’t care at all how they are brought up, other than trying to assess whether their parents seem like good people.
You don’t have to determine what kind of parent you are to you or anyone else. No one can be a parent forever. You can be a little bit of everything. Or you can be a whole bunch of something for a while, and then a whole bunch of something else. One day you can fly to your child in a helicopter when he really needs it, and set him free until the end of the week. If it works for your family, it doesn’t need to be put in some neat box or catchy hashtag.
For many months my child ate only homemade puree made from organic fruits, vegetables and proteins. As a child, he ate a bunch of microwave-cooked dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.
I am terribly strict about what media he uses and how he consumes them. But I don’t really limit screen time.
I do not allow him to play multiplayer online games when he is at home, but I do not watch him at all when he plays with his friends on the street.
I cherish and have been known to scream.
My standards change depending on the day of the week, wind direction and my general mood. I have no idea what kind of parent I am, except, hopefully, a decent one.
I wouldn’t know how to start judging myself on a scale from zero to perfection. And you don’t need that either.