Everyone has fallen in love with the trope of eccentric, old blue-haired ladies, decked out in gold lamé jackets, sheer stockings, and large chunky antique costume jewelry. In their blood pumps a curious mixture of piss, vinegar, and glitter. Their filter is long since broken; they'll say anything they damn-well feel like saying, and more often than not it's beautiful, sparkle-encrusted wisdom slapped with a whip-smart cadence. They're honest, they're the tellers of brutal truth, they're relics. Valued to the utmost amongst those of us who are younger-yeared strange beauties, we mourn their deaths the hardest of all humans we aren't related to. They're treasures. We all know this.
But what was life for them as young women? As mothers of small children? Were they treasured then? Or ostracised and discarded? Did people hem and haw over every choice they made, each one rubbing the status quo harder against the grain? Were they haunted by being the voice of dissent? Did they care as little about the opinions of others in their formative years?
As mothers who are different than most others, even while we celebrate the joy of our babies growing inside of us, we are gripped with a powerful fear: as we make the journey into motherhood, we start to consider whether or not it's a descent. Will we morph into the Soccer Mom who lobbies with all their might to reach Tipper Gore approved levels of censorship in art? Will a slow fog rumble over our lives, sucking out of us every last breath of creativity in our bones? These sorts of considerations stop a great many women from procreation.
We've all seen it: tenacious and spectacular women, those whom Kerouac would call The Mad Ones, rounding their edges after their children were born, getting lost in chasing small beasts around with rags and screaming their burning questions about the status of little hands; are they washed or not?! Settling over them, a dull cloud. They lose their sexuality, then they suppress or weaponize their feelings, and finally they start wearing fanny packs and crocs. They lose the identities they previously had, all absorbed into The Mother. Getting drunk on pragmatically-priced box wine while their children are asleep is the highlight of their life. They grow bitter, mean, judgmental. They cry when no one is watching, lost somewhere between never thinking their shit is together and never being able to get their shit together. They throw themselves into making their families look Facebook-beautiful and desperately trying to keep guests out of their house because it has the presence of children in it. There is nothing more devastating than the sheer agony of seeming like a failure.
Society also poignantly dispels the notion that one can be the comfortable opposite. How often are women who choose their career, pets, or husband over the raising of children demonized into awful words: spinster! hag! barren! Collectively, the childless are judged as selfish. Hordes of people wait for the news of women who resolutely refuse to birth children that they are pregnant. On bated breath they wait for these announcements. Conversely, a portion of the Childfree sigh big angry breaths. There goes our mascot! What everyone seems to forget is that in each of these announcements, or lack thereof, there is an individual human being who wishes to make their own choices and not be judged by a mass of other humans that aren't even directly involved in their lives.
Those of us who occupy the role of Weird Mom have a very difficult job cut out for us. We bring our children to places that aren't illegal, but are also not acceptable: art shows, concerts, festivals, gatherings, rituals. Places that enrich the lives of adults who are already mostly fully-formed. Why is there a possibility that children would not benefit from these humanities even more? There may be artistic nudity, recreational drug use, loud music, strange occurrences, and everything that makes life beautiful. We give them bizarre names, teach them about cultures across the world, look at their upbringing as an anthropological experiment, see what makes them better. Showing them a glimpse of life not lived as normal is paramount. We give them the lives we'd imagine our favorite artists to have lived, even when most of them actually didn't.
They have transsexual aunts and drag king uncles, performer friends; they live in poetry readings and book lectures. They eat exotic foods and taste things before (according to the American Pediatrics Association's recommendations) they're supposed to. They listen to instruments most adults couldn't identify by sound. They are schooled at home either in the beginning or for their whole lives. They see breasts and penises splashed across canvases. Body hair becomes a normal sight rather than an abhorrent one. Radical self-love can be safely practiced. Injustice and sadness are explained to them, as conversations about the art they witness in their formative years. This is all okay. This is all okay. This is all okay.
It doesn't make us Awful Human Beings to expose our children to the beauty and pain people express through their art. It doesn't ruin children to travel around the country numerous times. No children were harmed from learning to use a microscope before they learned to ride a bike or hit a ball. Boys don't have to be confined to blue, and girls don't have to be confined to pink. Here's a secret: they don't even have to be confined to "boy" or "girl."
I tell you this for two reasons. First, because when I took my six month old baby Escher and my eight year old "baby" Dahlia to the Amanda Palmer concert earlier this week, Amanda expressed to me that I gave her hope. She explained that she was glad she could see that we as mothers don't have to lie down and die after we give birth. And second, because I know firsthand that it isn't easy to be a Weird Mom. Kimya Dawson makes it look easy, but she makes everything look easy and that isn't fair to those of us who weren't born with Superhero status. So I'd like to give all the other Weird Moms this level of hope.
As the children of Weird Moms mature into adulthood, they will ask questions. They will ideally view each newly acquired bit of information as a glimpse into the past life of a rare gem. They can appreciate the knowledge that their mother was an interesting and gorgeous creature. It will be something they hold dear to their hearts, giving them a bolstered sense of what they can accomplish in their own life. Inspiration will reel through their bodies. But, make no mistake: mothers who decide to "just" raise their children without any outside focus should not be subject to criticism. As long as one feels liberated by, rather than confined to, their role as a mother, they will do an incredible job. Everyone has a method. In such a seemingly thankless position lasting through many years, we the Weird Moms just appreciate getting our own (often scarce) applause too. If you encounter one of us, even smiling is an amazing gesture. If nothing else, smile at our children and acknowledge that we are building open-minded, intelligent, interesting, and accepting kids that will benefit future generations even after you mourn our fiesty-blue-haired-old-lady-in-gold-lamé-and-chunky-jewelry demise.
From the blog Radical Mom, Radical Kids
http://radicalmomradicalkid.blogspot.com/2015/05/in-praise-of-weird-moms.html
