I sat with a group of middle school moms who chatted about their kids. Superlatives only. No bloopers allowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cScience is too simple for Mark,\u201d one said. \u201cI squeezed in a tutor.\u201d<\/p>\n
Another jumped in. \u201cBobby\u2019s robotics group won. He plans on going to MIT.\u201d<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t just a conversation. It was positioning. Everything on message. As if childhood were a publicity campaign, not a process.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s Marty up to?\u201d another asked me.<\/p>\n
I hesitated. My son has celiac, Lyme, long COVID<\/a>, and chronic fatigue. None of it presents well.<\/p>\n The night before, he was too tired to do his math homework, so he played Fortnite. A good mom would have forced productivity<\/a>; I snacked on Swedish Fish and watched “Severance.” What looks permissive is often survival. But barely getting by isn\u2019t a good bullet point.<\/p>\n \u201cMarty is getting better,\u201d I said. \u201cHe really enjoys math.\u201d It sounded convincing enough to pass.<\/p>\n \u201cMoms [are] reluctant to share anything that doesn\u2019t fit into their highlight reel,\u201d said Ciera Kirkpatrick, Ph.D., a University of Nebraska assistant professor whose research shows<\/a> that picture-perfect versions of motherhood set unrealistic standards. \u201cWe need to talk about what life is actually like,\u201d Kirkpatrick said.<\/p>\n But the myth of maternal omnipotence rests on the idea that struggle is something to hide.<\/p>\n The wrong message<\/p>\n Fifteen years ago, I walked into an IVF clinic. Just before my embryo transfer, the doctor pointed to a dividing cluster of cells.<\/p>\n \u201cYour embryo is perfect,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s Harvard or Yale right there!\u201d<\/p>\n But before I could place a sticker on my car, Marty hit a snag.<\/p>\n \u201cSomething\u2019s wrong,\u201d his pre-K teacher said. \u201cMarty stopped listening.\u201d We didn\u2019t know it then, but he had an autoimmune disease<\/a> and two tick infections. The teacher suggested a classroom aide and then lowered her voice. \u201cThe specialist should come after drop-off, so the other moms won\u2019t know who she\u2019s helping.\u201d<\/p>\n But they lingered and looked around.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you see the helper?\u201d one mom asked later. \u201cWhich kid isn\u2019t keeping up?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not Joey,\u201d another said. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t have any problems. How\u2019s Marty?\u201d<\/p>\n I lied.<\/p>\n The truth felt too threatening to share.<\/p>\n Pressure to appear competent <\/p>\n When I imagined being a mom, I never considered a scenario where my kid couldn\u2019t get to school. But in sixth grade, Marty caught COVID<\/a> and was sidelined by intense fatigue and brain fog<\/a>. He was homeschooled. I tracked tutors, battled insurance, and stayed up at midnight obsessing over microclots and my son\u2019s T-cells.<\/p>\n I looked for support but got advice: \u201cYou\u2019ve got to teach him that staying home isn\u2019t an option.\u201d \u201cMy kids say they\u2019re tired, too. I make them push through.\u201d<\/p>\n Long COVID was treated like a choice.<\/p>\n I measured my competence against other people\u2019s assumptions and came up short. I tried behavior charts, bribes, and expert strategies. I was told to stay calm. I failed at that, too. The belief that a good mom can beat bad biology is seductive. I wanted it to be true.<\/p>\n I sobbed, screamed, and cycled through Zoloft and Lexapro. I barely slept. But at social gatherings, I said Marty was \u201cgetting there.\u201d We were \u201cfiguring it out.\u201d I framed it as a dip, not a collapse.<\/p>\n The performance was exhausting. <\/p>\n Optics cloud vision<\/p>\n We\u2019re conditioned to measure success by outcomes and to admire resilience<\/a> in hindsight, when it\u2019s polished and presentable. Then we applaud. We rarely value the messy moments in real time. But Marty showed me that success isn\u2019t just a destination. It\u2019s a process.<\/p>\n For a long time, he didn\u2019t get better. But he never quit.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s try bio-magnetic therapy<\/a>,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s supposed to increase energy.\u201d He lay still, took daily antibiotics, sat in front of a red-light machine, and swallowed 10 supplements each morning. <\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s try IVIG,\u201d the immunologist suggested. \u201cIt will help him fight fatigue.\u201d<\/p>\n Every other week, he clocked in for a four-hour infusion, extending his arm as a nurse slid a needle into his vein, immune cells dripping into his body. For over a year, his full-time job was recovering. There was grit in our house. Just not the kind that earns likes or social applause.<\/p>\n Motherhood unscripted<\/p>\n After months of exhaustion and interventions, Marty is finally back in school. The reality is filled with ups and downs. But no one moment defines his full story. And I\u2019m no longer auditioning for the role of \u201cgood mother\u201d in someone else\u2019s play.<\/p>\n One afternoon, Marty came home exhausted. I nudged him. The tutor was coming.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve missed so much school,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m at my limit,\u201d he said. \u201cStop pressuring me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood\u201d moms don\u2019t cancel tutors, but that voice wasn\u2019t just mine. It\u2019s the one that says motherhood is measured by productivity that appears impressive from the outside. I took a breath and did something that felt almost reckless. I called off the weekly sessions. And when I ran into a mom on the street, I didn\u2019t lie.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s Marty?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s tired. It\u2019s hard for him and me,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m lowering demands to give us both a break.\u201d<\/p>\n She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.<\/p>\n Later, I sat with Marty. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said. \u201cSometimes I feel like if I\u2019m not pushing you, I\u2019m not a good mom.\u201d<\/p>\n He appeared confused. \u201cBut you\u2019re a great mom,\u201d he said. \u201cI know how much you love me.\u201d<\/p>\n Epilogue: Notice of termination<\/p>\n Subject: Resignation<\/p>\n To Whom It May Concern,<\/p>\n I\u2019m resigning as my son\u2019s unpaid publicist. Effective immediately.<\/p>\n When Marty was born, I thought my job was simple: love, support, encouragement, and repeating the same thing in different tones throughout the day.<\/p>\n Without explanation or onboarding, I was reassigned to a very different position: fiction writing, reputation management<\/a>, and narrative control. But motherhood isn\u2019t measured by a child\u2019s achievements, curated appearances, or how neatly one can package them at dinner parties.<\/p>\n My son doesn\u2019t have a brand to protect. He has a life to live. And his journey doesn\u2019t fit into bullet points, hashtags, or headlines. <\/p>\n