The Biddy Committee

I wish I could respond better to snarky comments. Typically I’m stunned into speechlessness in the moment and then obsess for weeks forming the perfect comeback. I dole them out with frequency – usually in my tainted heart so no one can hear them. The intestinal fortitude one needs to be honest is not a quality I possess in words spoken. I prefer my bitterness to seep out in writing. 

The gems are usually extended from church ladies. In fact most don’t need to say a thing. Take for example, the Saturday vigil. The rubber necking and glares our way are actions enough to make us feel unwelcome with our two children under three years old. A zinger came my way after church one morning. There was a breakfast put on by a volunteer organization to spread the word about their services. My husband was on son duty – naturally this meant that I watched others steer my 20-month-old away from hot coffee disasters and pulling down tablecloths. I cradled my newborn daughter in the crook of my elbow as I scurried after the little klutz. At one point he had an open cup of apple juice and stains down the front of his shirt. Daddy duty. The bright idea came to mind that maybe, just maybe, we could put the juice in his bottle with a lid. It was clear I needed to fix the situation while my husband sipped his coffee, ate banana bread, and socialized.

As I went into the parish basement kitchen, my newborn arching her back over my elbow, a Sippy cup in my hand, and an obstinate little boy wanting his juice shadowing me with cries, a grandmother stopped me with a gasp of horror. At last someone realized I needed help! Wrong. She was aghast that I held my daughter in such a way and scolded me as if she was telling a child to keep hands away from a hot stove. Burning with shame, I pleaded I just needed to get my son his juice. With urgency she asked if I had help coming to my house as if my daughter’s life depended on it. She stretched out her hands and insisted on holding my daughter. It is unbeknownst to me why I handed my little baby to her.

My son’s cries ceased as he chugged his juice. All was right with the world for him. Not for me. Granny had a group of her compadres giving me the evil eye. She asked me if I wanted my daughter back as if I was a fungus to which she reluctantly wanted to return my flesh and blood. There was no disguising her condescension as she lectured me on how to hold my baby as if I was twirling her around with her neck adrift off my elbow. I squeaked out a terse reply, left the kitchen in a hurry, and averted my son scalding himself with her husband’s drink. Figures!

Say I was on the fence about the Church and my faith, combine that with the birth of a new baby, insecurities, exhaustion, exploding hormones or lack thereof, this woman’s actions and words could’ve been a deal breaker for me to never return and find another place where I feel welcome. I have yet to return to a church playgroup after the pastor’s wife asked if I could wrangle in my son for story time. It was our first time attending the drop-in playgroup that included activities and ended with story. Throwing a routine at my toddler and expecting him to comply resulted in disaster. Mrs. Pastor’s peaceful gaze at her two perfectly behaved daughters sitting Indian style with rapt attention quickly furrowed as she watched me struggle with my son.

A dose of compassion will go farther than a reprimand. After a particularly hard time out in public with my children, it is then that I hear from seasoned mothers and grandmothers that it “only gets harder”. Why would they tell me that when clearly I’m on the verge of tears? Oh yes, to hear the spiel about how time goes by all too quickly and to appreciate the infuriating and naughty behavior of my toddlers who are both in diapers. They cannot clothe themselves, feed themselves, virtually do anything for themselves and when I try there is resistance to the color of the Sippy cup, the speed at which I deliver their sliced bananas and grapes, and how dare I try to clean their bottoms after one million butt explosions. I just want to boil my children at the moments of peak frustration, not think about how time flies when each day seems like an eternity.

The local library is one of those places where we attend drop-in playgroups and story times. It is safe and enclosed. One particular day, I realized I had outgrown the group as a mother of two. There was so much chatter about nursing, sleeping schedules, and pureeing foods. I thought they were so silly to be feeling this way. Just have another one ladies and it doesn’t matter what you do because every single tiny thing goes out the window and survival mode kicks in – there is no time to ponder anything when it is two against one!

If I had a mirror in front of me, I would be forced to see my own hunchback and toothless grin…I became the biddy. I lacked the charity I was looking for in other women. In every stage of motherhood, each worry is real. Whether it is a birth plan, sleepless nights, nursing or formula, disposable or cloth diapers, immunizations, health, stay-at-home mothering, day care, preschool, full-day kindergarten, education, sports, dating, driving, college, employment, marriage, family, grandchildren, death – we are not immune to life and its joys and challenges and we women feel every milestone in our weary hearts. Mercy. I need to extend it as much as I need it. Which leads me to The *hitty Committee – things that other women should just not say. Overheard in a mother’s group “Oh really? You haven’t lost the weight? I already fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans!” Hmph! It is a long road to grace.