Confessions of a Scholar Mom
You haven’t really lived as a mother until you have survived your first mommy-shaming birthday party. What does one look like, you may ask. Allow me to offer a few examples of what you might hear:
“Oh, yes, we only use bamboo and wool diapers.”
“Does your child attend the Jewish Montessori preschool?”
“No sugar or food dye for our son!”
You never forget the times when someone implies that you are a bad mother.
Recently, such a situation occurred in our church’s elevator. I had just nursed my daughter in the designated room and was traveling two floors to reach my husband and our Sunday school class. Sleep deprivation and perpetual nursing have a way of chronically weakening one, so I sent my daughter’s carrier and blanket with my husband. The baby and diaper bag were enough to juggle.
I entered the elevator with baby in arms. I took a deep breath, and the door began to close. Ah, a moment’s peace for communion with…
[Enter older, more experienced mother. Think Baby Boomer.]
“You’re wearing a jacket. Where’s hers?”
Few things sting quite like an unexpected, self-righteous bullet.
“Her blanket is with my husband.”
I departed with the kind of restraint that would make even Jesus proud.
We live in Southeast Georgia. The temperature reached the low-70s before the worship service ended just 90 minutes later.
