My college roommate and I both have three children.  We grew up in the same city, attended the same summer programs, graduated from the same elite college. We both found good jobs, married accomplished men (who also went to that school), and had three kids.  But when it was time to have her third baby, my old roommate was worried.  Because unlike me, who could march into a third pregnancy feeling safe in the medical system, she knew that her risk of death was three to four times higher than mine.  She wasn’t sick.  She didn’t have a complication.  She is black. 

Black mothers are dying in pregnancy, birth and postpartum at three to four times the rate of white mothers.  During the second Black Maternal Health Week, I read the stories of black mothers.  Black mothers who had died.  Black mothers who had almost died.  Black mothers who had horrendous complications. 

Every week, I hear stories from women about pregnancy, childbirth and postpartum.  Sometimes I hear good stories, but mostly I hear about the tough parts.  I hear about the times when moms were not heard.  When no one was listening.  I hear about the times their concerns were brushed aside.  I hear about the insensitive comments made about their bodies or their choices.  I hear about times they felt abandoned by medical providers.  I hear about times they were ignored.  Mostly, these stories come from white women. 

How different would they be if they were the stories of black mothers?  My limited experience and statistics tell me they would be worse.  That comments like, “you don’t need to worry about that,” and “you should stay off Google.” would have a different tone. That judgments about choices would be more severe and come with ten times more assumptions. That medical questions would meet with even more patronizing responses.  That complaints of pain would be taken even less seriously.

If I hear the stories of upper middle class, white women with advanced degrees,  what are the stories of black mothers?  What are the stories of poor, black mothers?  What are the stories of black mothers with limited education?  What are the stories celebrity black mothers and of upper middle class black mothers with advanced degrees that speak five languages? We are hearing about Kira Johnson and Serena Williams.  What are the other stories?  I came away from Black Maternal Health Week, wondering, “what can I do?”  Maybe it is listen.  Maybe it is encourage others to listen. Because the unique stories of black mothers matter.  And we cannot hope to change unless we hear them.

Black Maternal Health Week was April 12th through 19th 2019

I’ve been thinking a lot about our last Working Moms’ Group. We talked about ‘Mommy Guilt.’ The question was, what do you have ‘mom guilt’ about. The answers were pretty common,

“I feel guilty about feeding my kids chicken fingers instead of home cooked, whole food meals from scratch.”

” I feel guilty because I like being at work and I actually enjoy being away from my baby.”

“I feel guilty because I let my kids watch TV when we get home at night.”

“I feel guilty that I look at social media while I am nursing.”

“ I feel guilty that I put my baby in daycare and go to work.”

“ I feel guilty that I don’t spend quality time with my toddler when I am caring for my newborn.”

The list is endless.

These are awesome moms who have babies and work outside the home.  They are tired.  So very very tired and they are working hard in multiple arenas all the time.  And what I hear is,

“I feel guilty when I don’t live up to an impossible standard.” 

“I feel guilty that I continue to enjoy and thrive in my career.”

“I feel guilty that I work outside the home.”

“I feel guilty that I have things that I enjoy outside of being a parent,” 

“I feel guilty that I need a little time to recharge my own batteries.”

“I feel guilty that I cannot devote my full attention to each of my children at the same time.”

I too get caught up in perfect parenting, perfect mothering.  I succumb to the idea that if I just try a little harder, I can get something else done.  If I just try harder, I can prepare a delicious and nutritious meal from scratch, chase my toddler, read to my preschooler and help my big boy with homework all at the same time.  If I just try harder, I can have more patience, listen better and not be touched-out at the end of the day.  If I just try harder, I won’t feel the guilt. 

But, it is really guilt? 

Here is a definition of ‘guilty’ that the internet yielded:

 “culpable of or responsible for a specified wrongdoing” – Dictionary.com

We call it ‘Mommy Guilt,’ but maybe that’s a misnomer.  Maybe it’s something else, sadness at leaving your baby or shame at having an emotion that is not socially acceptable.  Maybe it’s resentment about not having a moment to yourself or a partner who is not pulling their weight. 

Is serving a chicken finger wrong?  Is going to work a ‘specific wrongdoing’? I don’t think so. 

So, when the ‘Mommy Guilt’ hits you this week, dig a little deeper and see if there is something else there. If you find it, it might feel uncomfortable or scary.  Take a deep breath and practice some self-compassion.  Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart.  It’s for real, imperfect, whole human beings with needs, feelings and desires all of their own.  It’s not for perfect, mythical mommies – they don’t exist. 

“You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.” 
― Brene Brown

After I had my first baby, I found myself in a weird sort of limbo-land. I had taken a maternity leave from my job. I was expecting a break. A break where I could complete some decorating projects around my house and catch-up on some books I had wanted to read. I did not understand how life changing and soul altering having a baby would be, that I would be all of a sudden be caught between my old life and a new life. That I would now constantly try to balance the old world of deadlines, budgets, schedules and achievement with a new world of nurturing and caring without firm measurements for success.

In my old life, success meant staying on budget and on schedule. With a baby, no one was measuring my performance and responding with feedback for improvement or a bonus for exceeding the project metrics. And so I grasped for things to measure. I grasped for things that I could nail down. I tried to figure out what made a ‘good’ mom, what made a ‘great’ mom and what dragged a woman down to the horrible range of average. So, I created a schedule for my two week old baby, I breastfed through pain because it was the ‘best’, I cooked organic, from scratch meals, I learned new ways to fold fitted sheets and I bought videos on baby sign language.   And guess what – it didn’t work. My son cried, he didn’t sleep on schedule, I had to supplement with formula, he didn’t sleep through the night and by four months, he wasn’t making one sign.

I had failed. I had failed at being a ‘great’ mom. And I was miserable. I was so wrapped up in making sure that I was meeting my own arbitrarily imposed standards, that I was missing the best parts of being a mother – or at least what I had heard about the best parts.

With my subsequent children, I did things differently. I deepened my yoga practice. A practice that does not subscribe to ideas of judging and labeling, or of competition or success, a practice that constantly seeks to balance the ideas of effort and ease, surrender and action. 4^th Trimester is about bringing these concepts to newborn mothers as they seek to find their own balance between their old world and their new world. It’s about honoring each woman’s experience as unique and valid.

For me, being a ‘good’ mother meant finding a new way of being. A way that is softer, more flexible and more open. In letting go of my desire to measure, compete, rank and judge my performance, I found more joy, peace and fulfillment in my journey as a mom. And this ‘letting go’ is a constant practice, one that feels easier some days than others. I’d love to have you come practice with me.