You don't.
You just don't.
You don't check women's nails; you don't see if their eyebrows are perfect; you DO NOT ask them if there's a yaya or a hands-on-daddy willing to take the weight off. Unless of course you're willing to give them a couple seconds' respite. We all have different experiences and different situations. Unsa man ka, fashion police?
There's an article circulating facebook, about how you're supposed to spot fake hands on moms.
I saw it twice, one from a very hands on fashion blogger friend (no yayas in America); and from a mommy who has a supportive tribe. Both of them were upset by the generalisations of the article. I had to read it too.
Someone should tell the author it takes a village to raise a child. Someone should tell her about postpartum depression. Someone should tell the author this kind of combative language does not help us at all.
What if you're a single mother and you have the sort of job where you're required to wear high heels and nails? What if you leave them with someone in the morning and return to them - to the baby food, the diapers, the sleepless nights in the evening? Does that make you a "fake" hands-on-mom?
I wonder how many more mothers were upset by the tone of this article.
I wonder how many more mothers are trying to still retain a sense of self after all the pressure to become second to their children.
I wonder how many more mothers buy this line of thinking.
That the only valid mother is the sort who disappears.
If I were to let my narrative be defined by this article, I would say that I belong to the fake hands on mom category.
I put makeup on to cover the dark circles around my eyes from 3am feedings. I get a mani-pedi whenever I can (which is whenever my mom's around so we can take turns watching Malaya). I can't help color coordinated outfits. We happen to have a very detailed grooming ritual where the boy is a full participant. It also takes hours for us to get ready to go out (and even THAT's a rare event).
We have a helper who comes in the mornings to do laundry and clean the house. Sometimes she helps out with the boy. Half of the time, daddy carries/wrestles/talks to him. In the mornings he talks to his mamita over facetime. We are also (still) breastfeeding. We are also doing a hundred things "wrong", and I am constantly in shambles wondering if I'm raising the next Jack-the-Ripper.
I also happen to think I am in charge of taking care of myself. Sometimes I feel guilty for taking the time away from the boy when I'm writing. But I've trained him to entertain himself so I can have some ME-time as well. And when I'm done with my time, and he's done with his alone time, my attention is fully with him and he is focused on me. No matter if we are playing, or grooming, or eating, or whatever. He is healthy and happy. And that to me is all that matters.
I wish the article instead said "It's okay to be imperfect mommy. So am I."
