Ge ac p o t oy f Moh ro dCo s aual teh o me N trl y f m o eo te erti r r o n fh s eal s e

Wa t r S ayMo n moe c r mmy ? Vs S ay mmyc m i c rMo i t .o

yo u a r e yo u r oWn h a rs he s t C ri t i C

Lie #11

Having a teenager in the house has been detrimental to my self-esteem. Sometimes, I want to treat her exactly the way she treats me, but that would be child abuse.

Scary Mommy Confession #252463

m a horrible mother. My kids watch too much television, they eat too much junk food, and they dont participate in enough extracurricular activities. They have poor sleeping habits because Jeff and I were too lazy to put them to bed properly when we had our chance, and sometimes they wear shorts in November. Im a shitty wife. Im always cranky and frequently take it out on my husband. I reserve my few moments of pleasantness for my kids, and so all my husband gets is No, Are you kidding me?! and Do what I said. Sex these days is like a drive-in movie: open for your viewing pleasure, but youre on your own.
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JILL SMOKLER

Im so fat. I need a tummy tuck, and my upper arms have a better sense of movement than my feet. I vacillate between three different clothing sizes. And by vacillate, I mean I ONCE hit the smaller of the three in the last nine years. I cant even count the number of times that thoughts like this have raced through my head. Im a mother, a wife, and my own person, but its rare that I am satisfied with my performance in one area, let alone all three. My failures seem so obviousI assume everyone must think the same of me. Strangely, though, every time Ive ever voiced these feelings, Ive been told the same thing: Im too hard on myself. Im my own worst critic. This, my friends, is one of the most pervasive and pernicious lies of motherhood. Ive said it, youve said it, and its just plain bullshit. There is nobody harder on a mom than her fellow mother. It starts bright and early with pregnancy. As if the symptoms youre suffering werent bad enough, when you are expecting, everyones mission becomes to knock you down. Not literally, of course, because that would be attempted manslaughter, but they will try to knock you down nonetheless. They will insult your appearance, question your choice of lunch meat, and casually note just how much weight you have gained. Once the baby comes, its like youve signed on a dotted line agreeing to put every decision you make into the public domain for open critique. Your babys name, your decision to breastfeed or not to breastfeed, the sleep habits youre enforcing... everything is simply an opportunity for people to stick their noses in your business and judge away like its a spectator sport. And thats just what we say to each others faces. The
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YOU ARE YOUR OWN HARSHEST CRITIC

behind-the-back talk is even harsher. But because were mothers, we find a way to mask our judgment in feigned concern and helpfulness. We once lived in a neighborhood where, on the first night under our new roof, the queen bee of the subdivision gave us an illustrated list (I kid you not) of our surrounding neighbors. Each house had a little notation next to their name: #2703 hosts the Easter egg hunts and fights loudly; #2708 are going through a divorce, but its amicable; #2714 babysits, has a Fourth of July bash, but passed lice around to the whole Girl Scout troop. As she walked in with her tray of brownies and neon nails, I wondered what notes she was taking at my place. #2601: Appears not to have showered in three days, bottle-feeds her infant, and lets the older one watch too much TVSHITTY MOTHER, her note likely screamed. Unfortunately, the critiquing doesnt end with other mothers. Kids can be just as brutal, especially our own. Ill be innocently showering first thing in the morning when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. Its not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!! If Im really lucky, all three will stand outside the shower pointing and laughing like Im a zoo animal taking a dump. Once I get out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. Whats that purple squiggle, Mommy? A spider vein, I sigh. That one, too? Yes, that one,
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JILL SMOKLER

too, honey. Over here, too? Yes, my darling, thats what theyre called. Lets move on. Okay. Whats this? Its a stretch mark. Thats a scar. Thats a vein. Thats cellulite. Thats hair. Thats a wrinkle. Thats a bruise. Thats... crap... what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, all right? Speaking of getting dressed, Lily, my child who scoffs at J.Crews Crewcuts and lusts over the Justice catalog, frequently greets me with equally colorful commentary on my clothes. She tells me my clothes dont match, my clothes make me look flat, or the color of my sweater is kinda ugly. She is the Joan Rivers of the house, and she is ruthless. The patch of white hairs, the stubble on my legs, the heels in need of exfoliating... nothing goes unnoticed by my lovely children. At the end of the day, as I read the boys bedtime stories, Evan inevitably focuses on my face. Whats that dot? he will ask, pointing to the tiniest pore or a birthmark or a chicken pox scar. One by one, he counts them like hes counting sheep, falling asleep to the comfort of my imperfections. Its a miracle that any mother has the slightest bit of selfesteem left after the criticism our children and peers put us through on a daily basis. If men were treated like this, Im quite sure that they would just crawl back into bed for the rest of their lives and mope about their feelings being hurt. But not us. We can take whatever the world throws at us and power on. Our skin isnt thick, its impenetrable. Or getting there, at least. And, may I just say, youre way too hard on yourself. We all think youre doing a great job.
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1. shock & Denial. This is not my body. This is NOT my body.

The Seven Stages of Getting Dressed for a Rare Night Out

These are not my boobs, this is not my ass, these are not my thighs. No, no, no! This cannot be.
2. Pain & Guilt. What have I been thinking eating like Im still

pregnant? I deserve this ass. I deserve this stomach. I deserve these thighs. I suck.
3. Anger. What are you looking at? Youve never seen a woman

surrounded by the entire contents of her closet and three pints of ice cream? Go to hell. Youre the one who caused me to look like this. You and your fucking sperm. You are the last person I want to go out with.
4. Depression, reflection, and loneliness. Why am I sit-

ting here alone in my closet? Its because I look like this, isnt it? Nobody wants me.
5. The Upward Turn. I dont have to look like this forever. I

can start a diet RIGHT NOW. No carbs. No sugar. Gallons of water. MILF-dom, here I come!
6. reconstruction & Working Though. Okay, so maybe

not no carbs. Light carbs. A little sugar. Iced tea. Vodka.

7. Acceptance. Im never going to rock the skinny jeans or swim-

suit again. Pass the Ben & Jerrys. And the muumuu. And the wine.
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Ge ac p o t oy f Moh ro dCo s aual teh o me N trl y f m o eo te erti r r o n fh s eal s e

Wa t r S ayMo n moe c r mmy ? Vs S ay mmyc m i c rMo i t .o