I grew up in suburban Sydney with the Uber Mother. I don’t mean she drove people around in the back of her car, although she absolutely did that. I mean she was the supreme mother: motherhood polished to perfection.
Let me take you back.
In her kindergarten class photo, Mum is the only child holding a doll. Her childhood dream was to have twelve children. Her own mother teased that she’d have to learn patience, and to love doing laundry. Studiously, she set to work practicing both.
She married and had six children. (I was the second.) Blue-eyed, with blonde curls, Mum was (and is) sunshine, liveliness, wisdom and humor. If we misbehaved, she seemed startled: ‘That’s not like you!’ she’d say, and we’d slide back into line. I only remember her losing her temper twice. It was so unexpected we giggled, and she apologized.
When I was 14 and my youngest sister three, Mum began fostering babies. Each baby, often neglected or a newborn in drug withdrawal, stayed with us for anything from a few weeks to several months. Infants would arrive scrawny and wretched, and be transformed by Mum into fat, happy cherubs. She had one rule: she’d love every baby with her whole heart.
Once, a tiny baby became dangerously ill with whooping cough. The doctor looked at the infant in Mum’s arms. ‘He might not make it,’ she said, ‘but if I send him to hospital and separate him from you? He definitely won’t.’ Mum took him home and got him through.
Dad was supportive, but worked long hours. Us kids helped with housework and played with the babies, but Mum did the night shift, and was often awake for hours. Then she’d get up, make lunches, drive us to school — or to tennis, piano, karate — teach community classes in stress management, care for an infant, and make dinner for eight. While always remaining her patient self — and sure doing a lot of laundry.
Hilariously, as a child, I assumed I’d grow up to be my mother.
True, I had career aspirations. At nine, I remember explaining to my best friend that I’d tick these off early. Flight attendant at 22, astronaut at 23, author at 24 — and then I’d be a funny, sunny mother to six.
In fact, I became a lawyer then an author. I adjusted my motherhood plans. Maybe four kids would suffice. And I’d want to keep working, at least part-time, because my soul required it: I love writing. Also, I kept postponing motherhood. I liked traveling, seeing bands and — my greatest pleasure in life — sleep late.
At 35, I realized I’d better crack on. After miscarriages, my first child arrived when I was 37. In an unexpected twist, I also found myself a single mother. It wasn’t just my soul that required me to write, it was also my landlord.
Still! At least to this one child, I’d be a golden mother like my own.
And then came the moment.
My sisters and I laugh about the fact that we all had this moment.
My son was two weeks old, and fretful. I’d just got up to him for the fourth time. My head was a clunky bowling ball; eyelids weighted little sandbags. Muzzily, I rocked him—and wham!
It hit me like a semi-trailer.
My mother chose to do this. Every single night. With six other children.
What the *@# was she thinking??
That was the beginning of my steady realization that I’d never be my mother.
Apart from apparently having vast reserves of energy and patience that I lacked, Mum had known intuitively how to parent. She could fix a problem, apply a bandage, soothe a fever, deal with a teacher, advise on friendship groups and part-time jobs. Meanwhile, I’m frantically googling solutions. I’m phoning friends and sisters (and Mum herself). I get confused and cranky! I don’t know how to make parenting decisions! Sure, my son is a delight but that’s all him, not me. I look back at my parenting and see a trail of mistakes and regrets.
In fact, my latest novel, Time Travel for Beginners, is partly about parenting regrets. The Time Travel Agency is a suburban store that offers its customers trips to the past, and Anna, who senses she’s failing as a parent, has just got a job there.
The other day, I was telling Mum about the book over coffee.
‘Oh yes,’ she nodded. ‘I made so many mistakes as a parent.’
I spat my cappuccino.
‘Remember how late I’d be collecting you? And you kids had to do so much housework! And of course…’
She was still talking, but I’d lost focus. I was too gobsmacked.
‘I didn’t have a clue really,’ Mum concluded. ‘If I could do it again, I’d change so much.’
Now I was laughing, babbling about how perfect she’d been, and how on no account should she change a thing — and a strange elation was washing over me.
If even my mum, the queen of motherhood, has parenting regrets? Well, to mothers everywhere I say this: If you love your kids and you’re doing your best? Forgive yourself. Let it go. You’re doing great.
Jaclyn Moriarty is the award-winning author of books for readers of all ages. One of the talented and popular Moriarty sisters (including Liane and Nicola), Jaclyn lives in Sydney, Australia, along with her teenage son.
