Well, I’m singing, I’m dying inside – De Groene Amsterdammer

For several days there was a stupid text in my head, a pesky earworm that I couldn’t get rid of. It’s my fault, I’ve been scrolling for too long through a completely random feed of videos on Instagram, rollers So to speak, TikToks for people who are too old and tired to use TikTok.

An endless procession of mothers with children and young children passed by. they did dances, lip sync Certain texts point their fingers at different places in the room where the words appeared. There were a few networks that fit all those movies. In addition, the films were clearly divided into three genres. Light entertainment: a mother changing her face to the head of a horse with a certain filter and her child’s reaction to it (a little amused by the blind panic), the child singing with the mother’s mouth, young children derailed by a voice above a woman who said something about her epidemic children. Then there were the tips and warnings, often professional or semi-professional: mothers who ran a business from home as a sleep coach, nutrition counselor, baby massage therapist or Montessori preacher.

The most inclusive kind, the kind that I’ve been fed over and over for unclear reasons by an ingenious or very primitive algorithm (I’m not sure about that yet), was that of a passive-aggressive mom who did a lot of things. Thought without uttering it. Mothers of babies with a genetic defect, mothers of deaf and blind babies, walker babies, overweight babies, many babies, adoptive mothers, and mothers who looked like adoptive mothers but weren’t. All of these mothers had to deal with a judgmental, ignorant, disinterested outside world that either didn’t ask questions or was asking the wrong questions. Their anthem was that tune I can’t get out of my head now.

wait, how are you? I’m fine, I sing, I’m dying on the inside.

The outrage of passive aggressive moms on Instagram is a gift that keeps on giving

The mothers were tired and lonely, but also strong and quarrelsome. They wore their struggle like a medal, they expressed their silence without wanting to break it, and all this, at three in the morning with a child wide awake and the sleep of the innocent lover asleep, seemed to me the paradox of motherhood, motherhood, motherhood (in the middle of the night with your baby, The experience ceases to be something special.)

in her article continuity Sarah Manjusu writes about losing herself as a topic when she just became a mother. For her child, she is not a person, but the background on the basis of which he conducts his whole life. “I’m no longer just something that lives in the world”, she writes, “I am a scientist.”

Being someone’s world I’ve always resisted the idea of ​​romance, but at least now that I’m a scientist to someone, I better understand where this strange desire for absolute, absolute, and absorbing romantic love for the subject comes from. For Mangusu, it is considered to view the self not as a subject but as a continuation. What you don’t write is that you cease to be an object not only of the child in your arms, but in some sense to the rest of the world. This is what mothers in movies talk about in a very passive-aggressive manner: a concealment that arises not from assuming that she is not there, but from assuming that she is everywhere, all the time, the clear background upon which the most complete opera stands.

The paradox is complete in the eternity spell Mom knows. sneaky way to Mom In its place, which is an abbreviation for any otherMom To evade responsibilities, in short: patriarchal assertion bullshit. At the same time, the conclusion is always that the mothers themselves draw and encourage other mothers. Passive-aggressive moms’ anger on Instagram is a The gift that keeps on giving: Everyone assumes they’ve solved it, they’ve solved it, they become invisible, they get angry, they become more determined that they are the only ones who can solve it, and they begin to believe it. Mom knows The belief is that they and all other frustrated mothers regain their independence, without realizing that so-called independence is just a form of magical thinking, as if motherhood is an embodied and untransferable physical relationship.

I look at these mothers and see myself. I look out the window and see what the weather will be like today: a meaningless gray sky, with gusty winds blowing at times unreasonably.

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