They Call Me a Selfish Mother..!

We wither our personality, our intelligence, our appearance... and, in the end, our marriage — in the name of "good motherhood!"

My little girl is six years old, and her teacher wants her to begin music lessons, believing that an early start will help her learn the more; but I refused, though I can well afford the fee, because I see that she takes no serious interest in this art — whereas in my own childhood I longed to learn singing, and that longing kept stirring within me until, a week ago, I began practicing my hobby under a skilled teacher. If Layla wants to study music, she shall have her wish when she grows up, for then she can appreciate music better, and the study will be her own idea, not something imposed upon her by others.

When I told the idea to my friends they received it with astonishment and wonder, and one of them was perhaps shocked; for all this, in their view, means that I am a selfish mother who wants to deprive her daughter of precious piano lessons so as to monopolize singing for herself. I was shocked in my turn to find this their attitude toward me. And there stood revealed to my eyes the mistaken notion of the duties of motherhood which we embrace without looking into its deep essence.

In their view the ideal mother gives her whole life to her children, turns her back on her cultural inclinations, and appears forever worn out for their comfort; she arranges her life around a single axis — her children.

From the birth of the first child the mother ceases to live as an individual with an appearance of her own; she casts aside the role of wife and replaces it with a motherhood that makes her forget the duty of wifehood, and that affection in which her husband once had a share becomes the property of her children and theirs alone. No wonder that most men's complaints contain this sentence: "My wife cares for my children more than for me — I could almost believe I have been folded out of the book of her life and become, for her, a machine for gathering money."

In this way a woman wears out her life and raises a generation unable, later on, to shape its own way of living. We wither our personality, our intelligence, and our marriage in the name of good motherhood.

Some of my friends do not share my feeling that the mother's respectable appearance matters more than her children's appearance; for she keeps it up to please her husband — above all when she receives his friends, and he lifts his head in pride and admiration at her perfection.

Unhappiness takes hold of children's souls if they differ from their playmates in appearance; but dress is a secondary matter at their young age, and all that matters to them is that their clothes serve the purpose. I know a neighbor who buys her children every kind of expensive clothing, which eats up her time and strains her purse; she is determined that they shall look elegant even at play — and she goes out for the evening with her husband in a shabby old dress.

This does not mean that I do not allow my daughter to wear good clothes and to learn how to value clothing; it is she who chooses the color and kind of her clothes, and then she feels the beauty of her clothes, especially the pieces she buys herself, and this feeling will grow with her and increase her self-confidence.

It was a difficult step, and at first I failed to persuade my husband to accept this plan of upbringing, since he feels that our duty requires us to meet the children's every demand; but I succeeded with him at last, and he came round to my view of upbringing. Of our neighbor's situation he remarked: "It seems to me that a mother so sunk in love of her children pays her man no attention at all." I am not calling on mothers to neglect their children; but the duty of a wife calls her to give her man the same attention.

Two days ago I was in a toy shop; among the toys, one lovely plaything caught Layla's eye, and I longed to buy it, if only to glimpse the sparkle of merriment shining from her eyes; but I preferred

to buy something my husband needed, and that evening I sat up making a toy for my child; she loved it as though it had come from the toy shop — and so, too, my husband knew that he was not forgotten in the family.

The mother who feels intellectual sufficiency in her child's company is no ideal mother, for she has forgotten her own age and ignored the fact that children's talk, charming as it is, does not fill the soul of a grown person — otherwise the widow would not seek a man her equal in mind and opinions, but would content herself with the company of her children.

By following this method of upbringing, I feel that I have raised a good child, and I shall never be driven to say to Layla one day: "I sacrificed for your sake, and here I see you going off with your companions and leaving me" — for I do not feel my work to be a sacrifice, but a happy experience in my life. She has not begun piano lessons, but I bring her, without her knowing it, into a musical atmosphere; and I answer her questions about everything with patience and good cheer.

She receives all the makings of happiness — love and affection and understanding and knowledge and friendship — but no overflowing measure that would deprive me of life with my husband. I sometimes think of becoming the mother who sacrifices everything, and it seems to me that this would be easier; but the parents' sacrifice is the real selfishness, for they think of society's view of them more than of their children's comfort.

So long as I want for my daughter a serene childhood, an orderly adolescence, and independence at maturity, I must keep apart from her, with a private life of my own, from this day forward — even if the world calls me: a selfish mother!