My sister H is home, and for those of you who don’t know, H knows more about how I should live my life than I do.
On Monday night, C was running around giggling, and H said to me, “I bet you can’t remember what you used to do with your time before you had C.”
Not wanting to contribute to the glamorization and idealization of motherhood and completely and totally fulfilling it’s supposed to be, I thought I would be honest with my sister.
“No,” I said. “I actually can remember how I would spend my time before I had her, what I would do, etc. Sometimes I miss that time.” It was an honest reply. Does this mean I love C any less? Of course not.
But you wouldn’t have known that from the dark look my sister gave me. Her eyes narrowed and she glowered in my direction. “God, what an awful thing to say. I hope you don’t ever tell her that,” she sniped, motioning toward a still-giggling C with her head.
Stupidly, I attempted to explain my answer. I suppose I was trying to educate my sister, but I think it’s time I write her off as a lost cause, at least at this point in her life. She wouldn’t hear any of it, literally. She suddenly was very interested in the television and the Olympics. Any time I tried to explain my honest, heartfelt response to her inane question, she would comment on the Olympics.
While I stand by what I said, while I feel annoyed at her nerve to judge me, while I pity her inability and unwillingness to hear the truth, I also feel like her judgment contained a truth: I am a bad mom.
And that my sister managed to upset me upsets me.
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