Sunday, January 31, 2021

Doing the Self-Care Boogie

Self Care by Erika Lee Sears, 2020

One of the best part about having smart female friends in their 30s is that many of us are aware of how stupid modern life is, and will validate the living hell out of each other when we encounter it in the wild. One such gift was sent my way this weekend, by a dear friend with whom I've spent hours discussing the joys and pitfalls of parenting, and let me tell you: we all need a good takedown of the Instagram Moms from time to time.

In a nutshell, the article focuses on what bullshit it is that we are still falling for the Instamom at all. You know the type: a gauzy look at a big family, usually in some picturesque setting, where there are plenty of crafts, hug pileups, and eyelet rompers. Tantrums happen offscreen, and there is nary a chicken finger in the freezer. These moms have thousands of followers, big houses, cute little husbands, and, it seems, very little interest in regions like, say, "postpartum mental health" or "racial equality." Their kids ride skateboards and swim in the ocean, or they dance at sundown, or they pile into camper vans for weekends away with their church groups. It is all INTENSELY wholesome, a vision of perfect motherhood that is upheld by a scaffolding of capitalism (you can buy your way into this vision) and patriarchy (there must be something wrong with you, as a woman, if you resist it). 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the internet veil, I'm over here, struggling with a kid who is slowly falling apart from lack of other children in his life, with a house that doesn't magically clean itself, with the scheduling nightmare of trying to cram work in at some point during the day, along with managing the bulk of the cooking and food in our house. It's not all a slog, but it is all work, and the majority of it is unpaid and just sort of expected of a mom. If you consider the running of a house work—and you should—I work an awful lot.

The article I was sent goes nicely with another one, about how we've convinced ourselves that meeting our basic needs is the same as self-care. I know self-care is not always glam—it includes things like therapy, crying, exercise, and hard conversations with hard people—but it tends to happen at a level above, say, the basics. Resting, eating, cleaning, and having social relationships isn't self-care. If animals don't do those things, they die. A pedicure? Sure, I'll give you that. A particularly pretty sandwich? No, babe. You gotta eat something anyway.

We have been sold a bit of a bill of goods, here: women's labour is not dreamy, for the most part. It's annoying to drag a kid in from of the computer for the third Zoom session that day, to ensure that the baseboard of the bathroom aren't in an embarrassing state, to plan and execute a diverse menu through the week that prevent any major nutritional deficiencies, to do our paid work, and to do the worry-labour of noticing the plaque buildup on teeth/clocking any major tantrum seasons and how they might map to childhood mental health/ensure that clothes are plentiful and in the right size/blah blah blah, we know the drill. It's hard to translate any of that to a social media post; should I want to?

And when I think about adding chickens, a ballet body, twins, or whatever else is hip among the Instamoms, my blood runs cold and I take to my bed. Because no reasonable person would consider the act of walking around town doing errands to be self-care, no matter how blue the sky or how pretty the flowers you pass along the way. If I have to bring a backpack to tote things home, then it's not self-care. It's household maintenance. (I hope I don't have to convince you otherwise.) The body, chickens, and babies just represent more responsibility, more shit I have to get done. No thanks, ladies. I have enough on my plate today.

I, like the author of the Harper's article, will likely not give up my habit of following the Instamoms any time soon. Despite my annoyance, they do offer a slice of beauty; I just have to remember that, no matter how authentic they seem, they are a packaged product with a point of view and a politics. They're about as real as a Marvel movie, but the scrim of reality—this is just our little home!—belies that fact. Show me the tantrum, the fight you had with your husband, the meeting with your advertorial sponsor. Or don't show me that, and float on into the night, as real as a magazine cover. 

I made a list of things that are truly just for me: things I listen to, watch, cook, do, and buy. It includes things like Stan Rogers songs and cozy blankets, weird cookies and slow walks through fancy grocery stores, my handknit sock drawer and the flavour of cardamom, clean white sheets and reading in bed, iced mint tea and Hilda on Netflix. Some of those things still don't pass through the filter of pure self-care, but even if they're work, I can do them with enough joy and focus on my own preferences that I'll let it slide. I need that list; I think we all do, these days.

If 2020 taught us anything, it's that families work best when they're connected to the outside world—childcare, schools, libraries, the early years centres, grandparents, the kids down the street, the friendly barista. Take away enough of those supports, and life starts to look like the Instamoms: just a family in a house. But it's not the right picture, and it's not the whole picture. I want to know if the Instamoms ever lock the door against their six kids, sit on the toilet, and scroll the way we plebes do. My heart says they do; what do they see?