Issue 36: The Performance of Motherhood
And my chaos goblin parenting era
Worth Considering: The Performance of Motherhood
It was a late spring day, and our family had driven east twenty-five minutes to Sonoma, where friends of ours were having an afternoon birthday party on the back patio of a local restaurant. I was on my second margarita of the afternoon, when I looked over to spy my then three-year-old splashing in a rusted planter in the back corner. His hands were covered in a mixture of dirty water, mud and crushed leaves; he was hoisting a rogue, dripping succulent above his head smiling from ear to ear with pride in his discovery. His toddling sister followed behind, the two of them delighting in the absurdity of it all. I should mention here that our son was also barefoot, while when arriving to the party Kyle and I realized we had both wrongly assumed the other had grabbed his shoes on the way out the door. At this same event, I also have a picture of them pulling stones from a (non-lit!) fire pit, sorting and stacking them by size and color. In another image, my daughter is fishing ice out of my (empty!) salt-rimmed rocks glass. The scene is, in a word, pandemonium.
The last year has been what I’ve come to call my “chaos goblin parenting era.” It’s hard to tell when exactly the term chaos goblin surfaced—seemingly sometime in 2022, when “goblin mode” became the Oxford word of the year. Definitions vary, but the general gist is “a type of behavior which is unapologetic, typically in a way that rejects social norms or expectations.”
Motherhood is chock full of expectations, from what snacks are deemed acceptable to how your child engages in play. Though there are certain parenthood dances I’ve decided to sit out (throwing large, chaotic toddler birthday parties is a hard pass for me), for the most part I’ve kept in step with my mom peers. I tried feverishly to make breastfeeding work; I followed the baby-led weaning protocol; I consumed too much gentle parenting content. For the first two years, I craved the mother gaze. I wanted to be the kind of mom who fit in and didn’t stand out, who held opinions but not too many of them, who had done her research but was also aligned with her intuition. I wanted to be both the perfect advisor and the eager student in the classroom of motherhood.
This performance of motherhood quickly became exhausting, and mine was only a fraction as choreographed as the influencer moms that littered my social media feeds. I was never posting (or making) perfect toddler lunches with star-shaped sandwiches, or dressing my kids in coordinated Boden ensembles. But I was still acutely aware of my mother persona, and the voyeurs witnessing it. Like a tree in the forest, does a mother exist if there’s no one there to see her fall?
Over time, I realized I could stop performing for those closest to me—women I became close to in a mommy-and-me meet-up, as well as my best friends of the pre-baby days. With them I could gripe about my kids and be met with commiseration instead of judgement. I could ask them for advice but knew they wouldn’t be hurt if I didn’t take it. They let me see their failures, their dirty hair and stained shirts, their less-than-perfect parenting moments. These micro truth-telling moments cracked a door into a world of grace-filled imperfect parenting. It was raw and refreshing.
Of course, rebelling against our culture’s expectations—both implicit and explicit—felt liberating. But I found myself wondering: Is being subversive a performance in itself—a performance of non-performance? Is this just another storyline to follow, a box to fit in? Will we always be trying to define ourselves in the sphere of motherhood? And if so, for what, or who?
The other day I caught myself talking to my four-year-old in a saccharine-sweet way while I was explaining why picking up his dirty socks and putting them in the hamper was an outward signal of respect for our family and home (jesus chriiiiist). I did so without any audience, other than my son. Was I performing for him? Or, was I performing for myself? When I lay awake at night cataloguing the number of books read aloud, the hugs given, my thoughtful actions and my impatient reactions, what I’m really doing is mentally tallying my worth as their mother. Are we, at the end of the day, just trying to convince ourselves that we are enough? Is the show just for us?
When I say performance, I’m talking about the pointed, effortful ways I speak to and act around my children. It’s the words I use, the approaches I take, how I give and take and bend. It’s like trying on various hats and seeing which fits; I’m gauging which is the least heavy, cumbersome, forced. When we embark on motherhood—outside of the mothering we’ve witnessed in our sisters, aunts, friends, our own mothers—we are drawing our plans mostly from scratch. It’s only once we’ve experienced the joy and pain and frustration and pride of parenthood that we’re able to begin to construct ourselves as mothers, carving away a block of clay until we’ve whittled a figure in the likeness of our pre-motherhood selves while also being a steward we feel capable of manning this new ship.
I think some come to discover this person quickly; some probably never fully do. I, myself, am still wandering the millinery, plucking a cap from the mannequin, pulling it tight over my ears, pushing it back on my forehead only to return it to its rightful, inanimate owner in the shop’s window and continue the search.
After four years of parenting two babies, then toddlers, now little kids, I’ve wondered more than once when I’ll find my footing, if it might be in tweendom and the teenage years that I thrive. This is the time when I imagine dropping the bullshit and starting to be honest—truly honest—with my kids. The charades are over then, the gig is up; I will have been pantomiming parenting expertise for over a decade. I can finally stop with the patronizing language and the silly scripts from experts I don’t know. I could tell them: yes, be kind but also it’s okay to tell someone to fuck off when they treat you like garbage. (I’ve been told it’s not kosher to impart this valuable lesson to a preschooler.) It would be the coming-of-age of my mothering self, which, not coincidentally, would look a lot like the return to my self-self. These later years are when my kids may begin to see me as a human and not just a mom; it’s the sought-after dissolution of lines between parent and person.
I can play pretend pretty well, but I don’t love it, not in the way my father did—an artist with unrealized dreams, chasing the delights of youth and hope-laden ambition. Play was where he shined. Maybe to recognize how and when we thrive in each stage of parenthood is to find the hidden passageway that connects the autonomous self and the mothering self—a kind of portal to deeper connection with our kids, without relying on performance to get us there. I think this is why I continue to seek out the melancholy, bittersweet picture books to read aloud to my kids—the ones with poetic sentiments, the ones that sucker punch you with their endings. They’re a bridge from my complicated, often gut-wrenching grownup world to their simple, emotion-filled child world. For someone else it may be singing showtunes in the car together or ambling walks through the neighborhood before bathtime. Mostly, it’s the thing that breaks down a wall, that softens the space between us and them, a small reveal of our own inner world in hopes of connecting with theirs. It’s a line we don’t cross often as the trusted keepers of the realm. It’s setting performance on fire and watching ourselves rise from the ashes, imperfections and flaws for all to see—especially our children.
I imagine motherhood will never be as pure as I hope it to be—the version where I’m able to offer my truest self to my children, hour to hour, day to day. To do so would be impossible, an unrealistic ideal of preposterous vulnerabilities. I think the best we can do is keep picking up new hats, and bearing pieces of ourselves we’ve kept tucked out of sight. Other times, it will be a performance, exactly that, issued only in the name of survival from one day to the next.
Worth Reading Aloud: Kate Hoefler
I picked up the book Courage Hats on a whim at the library, and was so moved by it I promptly placed holds on the entire Kate Hoefler canon (other favorites now include The Rabbit and the Motorbike and Nothing in Common). Her storytelling is profound but also accessible for little bookworms. She writes the kinds of books that grow in meaning alongside the child, making them bookshelf staples for years. They’re whimsical, full of imagination, and will probably make you cry a little bit (in a good way).
Worth Clicking: The Singular Chaos of a Second Child, The Washington Post
I always thought the transition from zero kids to one would be the hardest, but for me it has definitely been that from one to two kids. This article does a nice job of articulating why it’s so tough—from juggling two phases of childhood at once to schlepping twice the amount of stuff everywhere you go. I constantly feel like I don’t have the time or the emotional bandwidth to cater to both of my kids’ needs fully, which leaves me feeling like a sub-par parent on many days. This piece quelled some of those worries, and gave me reassurance that it won’t be like this forever, either.
Worth Sipping: The Absolute Best Espresso Martini
I’ve had my fair share of espresso martinis, and this one stood out by a mile. It comes from a restaurant in Berkeley, called Pizzeria de Laura. I got the details after our meal was over and then tinkered around with the quantities at home, finally landing on the recipe below. It does require some work and a fair amount of ingredients, but it’s a show-off of a sipper and a perfect post-bedtime nightcap (coffee liqueur only contains a very small, basically negligible, trace of caffeine—bottoms up!)
Espresso Martini
makes 1 cocktail
2 oz heavy cream
1/2 oz creme de cacao
1/4 oz simple syrup
//
1 oz mezcal
1.5 oz coffee liqueur
.25 oz creme de cacao
Combine 2 oz heavy cream, 1/2 oz creme de cacao, and 1/4 oz simple syrup in a jar, sealing lid tightly. Shake vigorously for about 30 seconds, until the liquid begins turning to whipped cream (check at 30 seconds and continue to shake if needed; it should be thick but still mostly pourable). Set aside.
Combine remaining ingredients in a shaker filled with ice. Shake until very cold, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Gently spoon the whipped cream onto the drink—don’t worry if it starts to sink or separate, it will right itself. Garnish with three coffee beans if you’ve got ‘em!
Worth Quoting: Arthur C. Brooks, Strength to Strength
“Devote the back half of your life to serving others with your wisdom. Get old sharing the things you believe are most important. Excellence is always its own reward, and this is how you can be most excellent as you age.”
(Sidenote: I read this book last month and while I enjoyed it, I think the original Atlantic article that it’s based on will give you a good sense of the takeaways.)
Worth Noting: This Week’s 10 Honorable Mentions
This Crispy Brussels Sprouts Blood Orange Salad was so good. To make it extra easy: (1) buy bagged pre-shredded brussels (2) skip the breadcrumb toasting and just pulse a bunch of croutons in a food processor for a few seconds.
Love this doodling exercise—reminds me of the opening sequence of Only Murders in the Building.
These friendship bracelet mugs are pretty darn cute. (Sold out but restock supposedly coming soon!)
Considering (belatedly) starting this sweet tradition—each year on their birthday, gifting your kid a book that you love or has taught you something, with a short inscription inside.
Bess Kalb continues her genius, from lighthearted (this) to heart-wrenching (this). A must-subscribe.
Very much enjoying Cup of Jo’s (new-ish) newsletter, Big Salad.
Waiting anxiously for new posts to pop up on @famouspplreading. Nerdy voyeurism at its finest!
Being the basic B that I am and adding all 3 seasonal varietals from Molly Baz’s wine brand to my cart.
In this next decade of life I’m approaching, I would really like to start investing in art—and whenever I have a cool $10k just laying around, Victoria Rose Park’s incredible mixed media pieces will be at the top of my wishlist. (And if there are any small artists you recommend I explore, please let me know!)