My Sentiments Exactly

This is a column written by Rheta Grimsley Johnson, an awesome lady and a wonderful writer. I might be a bit biased because I was her editor for quite a few years at King Features, but, no matter.

The following column describes exactly how I feel; it's almost as if she read my mind!

HAPPY NOT A MOTHER DAY!
BY RHETA GRIMSLEY JOHNSON

I am not a mother. They don’t make a card for that, or assign a special day for women who are not mothers.

Hallmark should reconsider. Not being a mother is an important designation, at least from the perspective of all the women who are themselves mothers.

It seems to bother mothers that some of us are not. They remind us a lot of what we’re not.

“Oh, but you are not a mother,” a mother will say when I voice support for public schools or against censorship of certain books. “You are not a mother, so you really don’t know what you’d do about school/dating/haircuts/going into debt for toys.”

Both my sisters, who are mothers, have gently reminded me on at least a hundred occasions. I am not a mother. So I can’t know real love. I can’t begin to understand pain. I can’t experience the deepest joy there is in this life.

Because I’m not a mother I always give inappropriate gifts to my nieces and nephews. Real shark jaws from Biloxi. Wool, hand-knit, dry-clean-only sweaters emblazoned with dinosaurs. Pocket knives. Puppies.

Dogs are an important part of my life, but only, I’ve been told more than once, because I am not a mother.

“You’re not a mother, and a dog, of course, is a child substitute.” (A darn good one, I might add.)

I’ve thought about marketing a line of cards for Not A Mother Day. There could be cute cartoon art, a woman who looks carefree and selfish and unconcerned about evil influences that abound in the world:

I don’t worry about global warming, or other things that might be harming
The world we’re leaving behind for John and Sue.
Not my problem, it’s up to you!
Happy Not a Mother Day!

Or maybe one with a sad-looking woman leading a small boy by the hand and the words: Dog Substitute.

My advanced age mercifully has stopped the rude question non-mothers hear a lot when they are young enough to be potential mothers. “Aren’t you ever planning on having children? Your biological clock is ticking.”

Mine never was wound.

A lot of women can’t conceive of not conceiving. Until the whole world convenes at a baby boutique, there can be no peace.

For years I tried to avoid discussions of what Margaret Mitchell once called “birthing babies.” The stories inevitably came up whenever two or more mothers gathered for a good time. The childbirth tales always involved repulsively graphic descriptions of torturous pain. They often came with photo illustrations.

I’ll admit to being squeamish. When the stories began, I’d flee, the only natural response. One of the mothers would smile a pitying smile and explain to the others, “She’s not a mother.”

The lot of Not Mothers improves with age. We become less suspicious. We seem less reckless and hedonistic. For a few years, given our seniority, we may even voice a few timid opinions.

Then, one day, when we least expect it -- there is not much frame of reference when you’re not a mother -- a new status is bestowed. Friends meet for lunch and someone brings out a pastel photo album.

“You’ll just have to indulge me,” she says in a patronizing tone. “You’re not a grandmother."

BTW, buy Rheta's new book, Poor Man's Provence here.