The Anti-Feminist Agenda of Family Wellness Night

A decade long story of evolution and connection

A little over three years ago, when we were still mid-pandemic, I published a piece on Mutha Magazine that had been percolating for years. It was an essay that captured one of my biggest hang-ups as a parent—my identity crisis and ambivalence about motherhood. I wrote about my desperate desire not to be seen as a martyr, my constant justification that attempting to teach my children that I was an actual person wasn’t “selfish,” and my worry that I would never get it right, that I would always flounder to balance my identity as a mother with my identity as a person, and that no matter what I did, I would always feel guilty.

Last week, a few days before my birthday, my daughters did something that took my breath away, and it instantly brought to mind this essay from a completely different stage of parenting, a story I began nearly a decade ago. You can read the original version here on Mutha from April 2021, but I’m sharing a modified variation complete with the ending I didn’t know the story needed until my birthday last week.

The Anti-Feminist Agenda of Family Wellness Night

There are only so many years of whac-a-mole bedtimes a parent can handle before breaking. Thus, when my daughters were 3 and 8, we decided to upgrade our haphazard nighttime routine and end the day on a less frazzled note. We called our new hippy-dippy ritual of meditation, breathing, brain gyms, essential oils, and gratitude, “Family Wellness Time.” During its glory days, it was a treasured part of our day and a welcome contrast to previous years of scrambling, scolding, and begging before collapsing on the couch for 45-minutes of television and perhaps a bourbon.

A year in, I decided to implement a weekly “bucket filling” practice familiar to most preschool parents: each family member gave a (theoretically) genuine compliment to everyone else.

The first time, I was pleased to hear my daughters sincerely complimenting each other’s positive qualities and chiming in with things they liked and admired about Daddy. And then it was my turn.

“I love how you’re always there for me when I need you, Mommy,” my oldest began.

“I love how you snuggle me, Mommy,” my four-year-old chirped.

“I like how you’ve brought music and family wellness into our lives,” my husband added.

It was sweet, and I appreciated that my family felt nurtured by me.

Yet as the weeks passed, I began to notice a slightly troubling pattern. My family members easily complimented each other’s talents. But when the time came for the family to “fill Mommy’s bucket,” the contributions all took a similar turn: What Mommy did for each of them.

I attempted to depersonalize it and take a larger, more intellectual view of things. Wasn’t it fascinating that children acknowledged the positive qualities of their caregivers through such a specific lens?

Children are naturally egocentric and perceive other people as relative to themselves, I assured myself. But the girls had no problem using adjectives to describe their father’s attributes: Brave, funny, strong, good at fixing things.

It seemed that only I was adored solely for the ways in which I fulfilled other family member’s needs— my gifts were all those of service. Apparently, my family viewed me as the one cliché I had worked desperately to avoid: the martyr. Which meant only one thing: my efforts to raise young feminists was a miserable fucking failure.

I had taken active steps to help my children perceive me as a whole person, making time for myself; writing about motherhood and feminism; spending time with friends; I avidly and sometimes feverishly practiced self-care.

Whenever the flares of guilt at indulging in such activities would arise, I repeated the reassuring mantra that I was paving the way for my daughters to one day be whole, fulfilled mothers.

Week after bucket-filling week, my family praised how I cooked for them, helped with homework, and provided hugs. I felt ashamed for dismissing these accolades as empty and meaningless; what mother would be disappointed with the acknowledgement that she was a comforting, steadfast presence who met her family’s needs? Was I really such a hopeless narcissist that I needed them to lavish me with praise for my abilities and achievements?

It was unclear whether my righteous indignation was on behalf of my own ego or the larger implications for the role of motherhood. I eschewed the “Acts of Service”-esque compliments about my efforts, despite the “growth mindset” trend of praising effort rather than innate talent. We “Words of Affirmation” people sure are particular about what types of affirming words we prefer to hear, aren’t we?

“Mommy is smart,” I craved. “Mommy is funny,” “Mommy is a good singer.” I would even have gobbled up “Mommy is so pretty!”

I knew my dismay was somewhat ridiculous. My four-year-old’s bucket-filling efforts often rang false— she referred to Daddy as “strong” and “brave” week after week, and often mistakenly praised her artistically challenged sister’s drawing creations. Really, did I expect a keen, discerning eye from a preschooler?

Then a new phenomenon developed: when it was time to “fill my bucket,” my family members seemed to dry up, floundering as they struggled to come up with something to say. As if it wasn’t enough to be labeled the perennial giver, now my husband and children drew a collective blank when attempting to identify things they liked about me? It bordered on humiliating.

During our final installment of “Bucket Filling,” I listened to my oldest child earnestly thank me for “always being there to listen to her problems” and felt my jaw clench. “I love Mommy because she’s . . . she always . . . I love how she . . . You go, Daddy, I need to think,” my youngest child hemmed. I gritted my teeth with irritation. My husband also seemed at a loss. The two of them continued to stall, unable to find the words to say something flattering about me.

I nodded curtly as my preschooler tacked on that she “loved my hugs” and visibly flinched when my husband added that I “was always there for the family.” Body rigid, I irritably swirled the singing bowl a few perfunctory times and sent everyone off to bed with an edge in my voice.

I knew I was being hypocritical. I clearly hadn’t thought about my mother as a whole being when I was a child. I hadn’t pondered her abilities, interests, or relationships outside of who I was as her daughter. Maybe children can never really see their mother clearly (though able to describe their father with a plethora of objective, accurate adjectives drawing merit to his excellence).

What of my crusade to model the “whole, empowered mother” for my daughters? If my agenda to pursue my happiness, goals, and dreams was lost on them, it meant I could no longer rely on my mission to inspire as a panacea for my guilt. If my children hadn’t registered my efforts, the only remaining justification for why I continued to prioritize my self-care and ambitions was: “because I wanted to.”

It took some time, but eventually I realized that reason was more than adequate. And I needn’t have worried about my anti-feminist children—they came around. At 9 and 14, they are my inside joke collaborators, cheerleaders, and movie-quoting companions. My Family Wellness insecurity and defensiveness now seems like a juvenile phase no different from their own fleeting childhood habits.

After my hasty and extremely Un-Zen renunciation of bucket-filling, Family Wellness Night gave way to the “frantic dumpster fire bedtime” era, followed by the more harmonious “Harry Potter ReadAloud Bookclub,” which gave way to our current practice, which is sadly non-existent. My girls now roll their eyes with irritation when I toss out quips about our controversial and fraught former bedtime routine.

Fast forward to 2024, the week of my 46th birthday. My girls are nearly 18 and 13, and we are now a household of 3, and my worries about their understanding of feminism and appreciation of me as a human being have primarily evaporated. I posted this on my Facebook page after the lessons of Family Wellness Time came full circle.

This is a long story, but it’s a good one. My birthday is tomorrow, and the past week has been a little intense. I had a packed week and a comedy show last night, and my single mom guilt/overwhelm was peaking by the weekend.

It seemed like no matter I was doing, I wasn’t doing it well, and couldn’t stay on top of it all. Between time with the girls, work, house and yard stuff, my own health and body, and trying to spend time with friends or actually relaxing, something was always falling through the cracks.

When I went to the show last night, I was particularly tuned in to feeling guilty about working and also guilty that the house was a mess. It ended up being one of my favorite shows ever, and when I arrived home, I already felt rejuvenated.

But when I walked in the door, the girls greeted me with a surprise: They had cleaned the entire house while I was gone. Vacuumed, tidied, dishwasher unloaded and reloaded. And of course I burst into tears.

Then they wanted to give me some of my birthday gifts. I was already crying as I unwrapped a new coffee mug and sticker my daughter had custom made, as it was a very specific inside joke, and then I opened this: folklore, my favorite Taylor album, on vinyl. And then a vintage record player to go with it. I could barely talk I was crying so hard, but I kept saying, “I am so lucky. I am so lucky.”

We went downstairs and sang along to folklore and TTPD on vinyl, and then the girls came out with a birthday cake. They had planned the whole thing—including playing up disappointment that I was working late—so they could clean while I was gone and pick up the gifts they ordered and paid for with their own money.

Over the years, I have so often felt like I gracelessly juggled work/family balance, and I’ve felt guilty no matter what I prioritized. I wanted so badly to teach them that mothers are not martyrs, that we are whole people, and sometimes I felt like I missed the mark. But last night showed me that I got something right, or maybe I just got lucky.

Because my daughters see me as a person. They know who I am, and our connection is profound. I think we all so deeply long to feel truly seen in our relationships, and even if I am single for the rest of my life, I will be forever grateful for the closeness I have with my girls.

It’s my second divorced birthday, and I looked back on last year when we were in survival/crisis mode and managed a frozen pizza on the couch with our favorite TV show night, bewildered and with brave faces on. We’ve come so far.

My girls are resilient. They are courageous. They are creative and loving and goddamn, they made me feel so celebrated last night. Whatever my actual birthday brings, I think this was the best one ever.

There really is nothing like being truly seen by our beloveds. Sometimes we have to wait for it, but that connection is worth it.

XOXO,
Steph