The idea of the mother-as-martyr is one of those especially pernicious stereotypes — one whose standards are impossible to meet, yet also impossible to shake off.
On the one hand, mothers often get blamed for falling prey to maternal martyrdom.
I share out of generosity, but not out of obligation.
It’s a question of self-care, a “put your oxygen mask on first before assisting your children” matter, if you will. I eat for my health. I eat for enjoyment. I eat for sustenance. I eat to live.
And if Mama’s going hungry, ain’t nobody happy.
But I didn’t always respect this rule when I was a child. In fact, my sisters and I routinely violated our mother’s claim to her food.
“Please, Mom,” we’d beg, our grubby hands reaching toward her plastic tray of 300-calorie Lean Cuisine pizza. “Can’t we just have one bite?”
And then she’d give each of us a hearty bite of her meal. That poor woman was subsisting on little more than sawdust and fat-free cheese and, there we were, making her go hungry. It’s a wonder that she didn’t take all of her meals behind a locked door, far beyond the reaches of her food-depriving children.
I vowed not to let my children do the same to me once I became a mother. (I made that vow right after apologizing to my own mother, of course.)
I refuse to martyr myself — or my appetite — in the name of my kids’ desire to eat that one, last delicious morsel. I’ve stuck to that goal, too.
Just a few years ago, for instance, my young son asked to eat the last crispy fried potato off my plate.
This wasn’t just any fried potato. It was a fried potato that my grandmother had just retrieved from her cast iron skillet. It was cooked to perfection — greasy with oil, yet still crunchy with a salty paprika crust.
It was one of the best potatoes in the entire batch.
And it was my potato.
I looked at my son and said, “I’d give my life for you, but I won’t ever give up one of my crispy potatoes for you.”
And then I popped that potato right in my mouth.
Lest one think that I am a greedy, selfish mother (as if this non-martyr would care), please note that there is at least one other person on this planet who has a legitimate claim to my favorite potatoes — or to any of the food off my plate.
And that would be my own mother.
May she eat in peace.
