My Funny Frankenstein
Recently, I turned on the television for a little background noise while I tried to get things done around the house as my baby played nearby. In this day and age, there are vast choices of programs I could stream, but I enjoy seeing what movies are already playing on television. I let the fates decide for me. Because it’s October, most networks are running monster movies. Some are horror (I could never handle those), some are more gore than superstitious (not with my baby around, thanks), and some are animated for kids (and fully matured adults, like myself). On this fateful October day, the movie that was meant for me was Hotel Transylvania.
This movie has a special place in my heart because, as college students, it ended up being my husband's and my impromptu third dating anniversary celebration. We joke about it, but we actually enjoyed the movie. As it played in the background, I continued with the house chores I was trying to complete. I’d been putting them off for days at this point, and things were really starting to accumulate. But every time I would begin to gain momentum on a task, I would glance over at my baby, hear the music from one of his toys, or hear his adorable babbles — and be riddled with guilt.
How could I possibly be putting in this second load of laundry (and not even the last), instead of playing with him? How dare I try to keep up with house chores when the greatest thing I could be doing right now is spending time with my son? There will always be laundry to load, clothes to fold, dishes to wash, bottles to sterilize, play areas to vacuum, high chairs to wipe, and kitchens, bathrooms, hallways, and carpets to clean. Wait. There will?
I stood frozen by the washing machine, vomit-stained onesie in one hand, bib with days-old apple sauce in the other, and guilt filling my heart. I looked between my hands and the laundry hamper — enter: anger. I felt myself getting heated up at the fact that I even let the accumulation of chores get this far. I heard my baby’s babbles from around the corner, so I peeked over. His hands were clutching the top of the playpen, pulling up just enough that his eyes could try desperately to find me — suddenly: sadness. He was looking for me. As a result of all this, I felt like I’d become the kind of mother whose baby had to look for her. Not the kind who is ever-present, ever-loving, ever-there. Because that’s what all the other moms do, right? Right? I threw the onesie and bib into the machine, still idle, with the lid wide open as if still hungry and neglected yet again, and went to my son.
I picked him up and held him close. But as I did, I caught sight of the room. All I could see were the unfinished tasks, the growing mountain of chores and projects I said I would get to “eventually”. There I finally was, holding the person that means most to me in this whole world, but the unwashed bottle lying on the ottoman was screaming at me. And now: immense frustration.
“So when I finally do things for the house, I feel guilty for not spending time with my son. Then when I’m with him, I STILL feel guilty for not doing things for the house?! These feelings are absolute MONSTERS.”
My inner dialogue was enraged, but I kept on the kind of smile that hangs by a thread. My son studied my face. I think he was onto me. He was having the kind of wiggles that come just before a scream. And finally: shame. I felt ashamed for even having these monstrous emotions and letting them affect the way I took care of my baby. “I’m really starting to hate these monstrosity feelings,” I seethed silently, still trying to feign a smile and avoid a tantrum. Then, a character’s voice yelled from the TV, “THEY LOVE US!” We both looked. It was the voice of Hotel Transylvania’s version of the Frankenstein Monster.
Over the centuries, the story of Frankenstein has had innumerable versions. But one thing has remained consistent since Mary Shelley first wrote the story back in the 1800s. Though Frankenstein is not inherently evil and does nothing wrong, the villagers are afraid of the way he was created, how different he is, and his appearance. They call him a monster. In some versions, they grab their pitchforks and torches. In others, they throw rocks at him to drive him away. In some, they come after him in his own home of Frankenstein’s castle, to get rid of the monster once and for all. But, really, he was no monster.
There are several feelings that many of us would classify as “bad” or a “problem” because they make us uncomfortable or call for us to do things that we may find difficult. Some, I assure you I couldn’t fathom who, might even call them “monsters.”
To do that is simply taking fire and pitchforks to the messenger. Feelings like guilt, anger, sadness, frustration, shame, embarrassment, anxiety, disgust, and even jealousy are not “bad”. They are not evil. They are not monsters to be shunned, attacked, or buried in a crypt. They are, more than anything, children. In costumes. Trick-or-treating.
These trick-or-treating children are each dressed as monsters, holding up their baskets of guilt, anger, sadness, and so on, asking you to keep filling them up with your own. Every so often — always when you least expect it — they knock on your door. They’ve seen what you’ve been through, the things that have hurt you in the past, and the things you are most afraid of. Their naive, innocent minds are trying to protect you in the only way children know how.
“Doing that got us hurt last time! We’re never ever ever doing that again!”, a tiny vampire yells from your door.
“We told them our deepest secrets, and now they’re gone so we’re never going to trust anybody ever again!”, the little mummy warns you.
“You PROMISED you’d be the bestest mommy there ever was but LOOK. He’s crying!” shrieks the mini werewolf.
What they say can hurt, leaving us in an unpleasant mood. But behind those monster masks, they’re just children. They don’t mean any harm. They don’t fully understand the world — or what the real root of the problem is. That, my Frankensteinian friend, is where our power lies. Sure, we could simply never open the door. But they’ll just keep ringing. To ignore them could cause them to get more aggressive in their knocks, causing us mental anguish, exhaustion, or even illness. Or, we could open our door and see the daunting “monstrous” feelings for what they are – masks.
I thought I felt guilty because I believed I was doing something (lots of things) wrong. In reality, it was born of the fear of not being a present mother and the perfectionistic vision I had of being able to keep a tidy home while caring for a beautifully messy baby boy. I feared that if I couldn’t live up to this vision, I wouldn’t be a good enough mother.
I assumed the anger at myself came from the fact that I wasn’t checking boxes off my to-do list lately, and now I’m paying for it. Really, it was the weight of the expectations I had put on myself and the realization of how little was truly in my control.
When the sadness washed over me, I thought it was simply because my son was whining for me and I wasn’t immediately there. But this sadness was actually one stage in a cycle of grief. I would have to mourn the idea of what I thought motherhood would look like and accept all the wonderful imperfections that come with this new reality. Including the fact that I cannot always be right there. But I need to find peace in knowing and trusting that I will always try my best to be.
The frustration tore me in two, but not between my baby and the laundry like I thought in the moment. I was torn between the way I thought things would go and the way things are. I remained stubborn in thinking there are separate times for house and baby when, in reality, that baby is my home. And if a bottle on the ottoman is what my house looks like with our son in it, I am only grateful for it.
The shame was a big one. It usually is. Shame is the kid that you think might be too big to even be trick-or-treating. I thought I was ashamed that my feelings were interfering with the way I took care of my son. But it really came from the idea I had in my head that if I didn’t do everything just right, it would mean I am not worthy of being this wonderful baby’s mama. And I love being his mama. This trick-or-treater is a tough one to deal with. But what she needs in her basket is grace, kindness, and empathy. Forget the bite-sized candy bar version, I’m talking the FAMILY size. Give her enough to share. Let her see that if you can show this kind of love despite what you’re feeling, just imagine how loved that little boy must feel. Even with unchecked to-do lists, alleged shortcomings, or unmet assumptions. Then, when she takes off that mask to take chomp out of that compassionate candy bar, you’ll see — this trick-or-treater is you.
“THEY LOVE US!” the funny Frankenstein monster on TV yells when he realizes that he has fans. My son gives a little grin at the big, funny, pale-looking cartoon on TV. “Yea, I guess we do,” I whispered, smiling genuinely this time. With that, I turned off the TV, brought my son to the kitchen, and listened to his giggles while we washed that bottle together.
