Mommy-Martyrdom Depression (MMD)

Posted on September 02, 2022 by Amy Sellers, One of Thousands of Family Coaches on Noomii.

I use screens as a babysitter. There. I said it. I said the thing that most mothers do every single day but that we’re too afraid to admit. You can thank me later for taking one for the team, ladies. I stand before the jury and plead guilty on all counts of recklessly jeopardizing the lives of my children by exposing them to harmful radioactive rays.

Not only that, but my crime goes beyond the lesser misdemeanor of doing so in the name of housework or necessary tasks. No, I confess to the full felony of exposing them to these addictive, obesity-inducing screens masquerading as harmless animation for no other reason than I NEED TO GET A GRIP. And it hasn’t been just under rare and extenuating circumstances either. No. This has been happening almost daily for years. Wait. Extenuating circumstances? Actually, I’m gonna go with yes. The extenuating circumstances of motherhood have been at the crux of what has driven me to commit this crime.

I began with the best of intentions, researching and diligently following the American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines for appropriate screen time use. I remember when my first child turned two, which is the scientifically-consented safe age of exposure to a screen without guaranteed brain damage. At that point, I hesitantly allowed a maximum of 20 minutes exposure a day of solely educationally-based programs. I’d occasionally slink away filled with guilt to do the dishes, making sure to check in every 2 minutes to ensure she was properly engaged–giggling, alert, singing the songs and doing the hand motions. I eventually broadened my horizons to the not-so educational Wiggles and Kids Songs, resisting the constant nagging urge to put in earplugs. I’d even sing along with the songs I wanted so badly to block out, ensuring “Fruit Salad…yummy, yummy!” will forever haunt my dreams–and any picnic where fruit salad is served forevermore.

But my resolve began to weaken when child number two came along. From the time he started walking at 12 months to the safe exposure age of two, I struggled. I found that allowing child number one her 20 minutes of screen time without child number two inadvertently being exposed was nearly impossible. The second I heard the pitter-patter of his little feet heading in the direction of the extermination chamber, I’d jump the kitchen counter with soap suds flying or skillets simmering–all in a desperate attempt to save him from a screen-addicted life of sedentary waste and intellectual mediocrity. But one fateful day, I was unable to stop him in time. And even though his encounter with the radioactive rays lasted a full 30 seconds before I could get to him, something amazing happened. He remained active, healthy, loud, and as intelligent as I might expect any toddler to be. I felt the betrayal of a child just discovering the truth about the tooth fairy. This was the day that my seed of screen time rebellion was planted.

It all went gradually downhill from there, until eventually I arrived at this point where I stand before you today, in full child-endangerment glory. We now almost always exceed my previous strict time limits, with content ranging anywhere from the innocence of Leap Frog Letter Factory to the more blatant corruption of Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Even my under-the-safe-age children sporadically view as they please, slowly whittling away their acceptance letter to Harvard one fizzled brain cell at a time.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse–I have also digressed to the point where I use this brain candy to manipulate my children’s behavior. Apparently they look forward to their electromagnetic high just as much as I do. Chores and homework that would otherwise take hours of painful coercion are done in a fraction of that time when their “minutes” are on the line. Yes, it is the most effective form of blackmail I have stumbled across as a mother, blowing sticker charts out of the water and beating dessert bribery by just a hair.

As for me, I’m usually off on some scandalous adventure while they’re occupied–like lying down, huddling in the pantry with chocolate and my cell phone, or exercising with earbuds in, listening to adults speak of adult things. I revel in every moment of their screen-induced coma, because I know the second I mandate the screens to be turned off, they will descend upon me like vultures on their prey.

I am here to tell you that the children have survived. Not only have they survived, but they still explore, interact, imagine, read, and frolic. And what’s even better: I am healthy and thriving, always far more capable of savoring the joys of motherhood after being given precious moments of calm each time that glorious, magical screen is turned on.

If you are a mother, you understand that total selflessness is the expectation, whether spoken out loud, learned through observation, or demanded of your own heart. I was no different. And really, having chosen to have so many children, I had little choice in the matter.

In the beginning, I did all the things. Grew and canned our own food. Served home cooked meals every night. Ground my own wheat berries to make homemade bread for pb & j sandwiches cut into hearts. Play dates and trips to the neighborhood pool. Couponed and bargain shopped and was still wearing my clothes from high school in my 30’s. Cleaned every inch of the house every Tuesday and vacuumed every night without fail. Every evening like clockwork we’d gather for a family lesson and do bedtime stories.

But *shocker*…this became unsustainable. And thus began my never-ending game of mommy-survival limbo. How low can you go? How low can you go? What began as, “Sit there until you’ve eaten your broccoli,” by year 10 or so became, “No dessert until you finish your cocoa puffs!” Potty training was at 18 months with child number one and 3 years old by child #3. Most people are only familiar with that bar getting dropped a few times for each subsequent child. Try doing it nine times and you become the limbo queen.

Even with all the bar dropping, however, I still maintained as much of a house of order and structure as possible. Hiding out with a bowl of ice-cream and going for a morning run is about all I ever allowed for myself. It was like I was attached to a bungee cord that was anchored on a pole of martyrdom & worthiness. I’d pull and venture away from the pole on occasion but then reach my limit of comfort and get sucked back in. Martyrdom was expected and felt safe; it was loyalty to my family line where the women preceding me sacrificed all. Exhaustion meant worthiness. I could not be the weak link. I could not be the selfish one. The cautionary tales of my youth, in some ways, actually painted women as very powerful. Women could either single-handedly save or destroy their children and generations to come, depending on their level of selflessness or selfishness. Women destroyed lives by complaining or growing bitter over how much their husband was gone; by not accepting the sacrificial status quo. Women saved lives through her complete and total sacrifice, nurturing and disciplined obedience.

My desperate return and grasp to that pole over and over was quite destructive. When the bungee cord finally snapped because what I was doing was no longer sustainable, I had no idea how to handle my new freedom. Beginning my journey with wisdom and moderation might have prevented the subsequent extremities I later experienced when I was finally forced to say: “No more. Motherhood is not martyrdom.”

I am convinced that if we all went into motherhood knowing this one thing — that it is not only acceptable, but essential, to maintain some feeling of autonomy, relationships and interests outside the realm of being a mother, we could greatly diminish the rates of postpartum depression that often last many years. Don’t get me wrong–those first weeks and months with a newborn are gonna be a blur of excitement, beauty, and exhaustion no matter how you slice and dice it. And there are absolutely cases in which hormonal shifts and genetics play a role in postpartum depression. But I have come to call this other, less acknowledged side of the coin Mommy-Martydom Depression (MMD).

Instantly slapping the label “postpartum depression” on a new mother is like throwing a band-aid on a potentially terminal contagion that has been handed down for generations and calling it good. I can think of few things that are more irresponsible. Should we not be asking the right questions? Instead of responding to “I don’t know why I am so sad and overwhelmed” with a prescription happy pill & a blanket acceptance of complete sacrifice being the necessary norm, perhaps we can begin to acknowledge, out loud, that societal expectations on mothers are out of line. Depression stems not only from hormonal shifts, but from the myth that in order to give life we must lose it, and the unspoken truth that suddenly becoming the caretaker of a beautiful but non-verbal infant can feel lonely, dark & sometimes endless.

Please know that for all of these hardships I acknowledge, there was also beauty, joy, and awe. I am Motherdhood’s #1 fan in many ways, which is why I deem it so important to be open and honest about what it entails. The beauty and joy are the known parts of motherhood. I am ready to talk about the unknown parts; the unspeakable. Every mother has some amount of shame over also being human; over having shortcomings and needs; over craving reciprocal love and acknowledgment. It’s not our job to insist on self care just because it’s trendy and will allow us to serve better. No, “If mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy” is needed. It’s time to insist on self care because we are human beings, just like those we care for.

Please, give your children the gift of seeing you live and give yourself the gift of living. This will look incredibly different for each of us. I am not telling mothers who keep their bar high that they need to drop it. I found great joy in my high bar years when I had the energy and desire to do it. I’m just saying don’t do it in the name of some quest for worthiness against red flags concerning your own health and happiness. You do not honor your mother and your mother’s mother by continuing to be a martyr. You honor them by living the life they gave you. Fully. You will be scared. It will feel like a slippery slope. I’m resisting the temptation to advise you to be careful; don’t go overboard; don’t cast all caution to the wind and throw the baby out with the bathwater. But I don’t need to offer that caveat. I do not personally know any mother who would or could ever do that. Our hearts are theirs and I assure you that you will not desert them when you taste a tiny bit of freedom. Trust in the tether that will forever bind you to them and them to you.