“The School For Good Mothers” Made Me Examine My Own Bad Parenting Days

How do you know if you’re a good mother or not?

The School for Good Mothers caught my eye as I scanned Barack Obama’s summer reading list. By first time author Jessamine Chan, the concept of good and bad mothers intrigued me.

My own mum often told me she wasn’t a good mother. Even as a child I knew it was more complicated than that, yet when I became a mother in my late 20s, I found myself questioning my mothering too.

Would I get a pass mark from the School for Good Mothers? Would any of us?

You can’t read this book and not be left wondering.

My oldest daughter is 16 now and her preschool years are a blur.

But reading about Frida, the lead character in The School for Good Mothers, brought early memories and feelings back in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Frida loses custody of her only child and is sent to a kind of mothers’ prison after a single bad parenting day.

“Several of my bad parenting days arrived in flashback form as I was reading.”

Several of my bad parenting days arrived in flashback form as I was reading.

But one bad day really stood out.

The bloody image is burned into my memory.

My daughter was maybe 3 or 4 at the time. An only child then, she appeared in front of me and tugged at my sleeve.

Blood overflowed from her mouth and down her chin. Watching it drip onto her pastel yellow dress and my mother-in-law’s carpet, I panicked.

Was she hemorrhaging internally? Vomiting blood?

I stood paralyzed in front of her, our matching green eyes mirroring each other’s fear and confusion.

Then she held up her tiny fist, clutched around a plastic shaving razor. “Brush teeth” she said.

She’d only been gone a few minutes. I’d been distracted, talking to the adults. I assumed she was playing. Assumed she was with her older cousins. Assumed she would know not to play with razors.

I’d assumed so many things.

In that moment, examining my daughter’s sliced up lips and gums, her mouth full of blood, I felt like a bad mother. A neglectful mother. A mother failing at my basic task of keeping this child safe and alive.

“In that moment, examining my daughter’s sliced up lips and gums, her mouth full of blood, I felt like a bad mother.”

Most days, I think I’m a pretty good parent. My children are happy, loving, kind humans. But Chan’s book made me wonder — if someone collated secret footage of only my bad parenting days — would I have been sent to the school for mothers as well?

Would I have been made to repeat a mantra, like the women in the book: I am a bad mother, but I’m learning to be good?

Probably.

The expectation around mothers in our society is still high.

Chan highlights this in her comparisons between the school for fathers and for mothers.

“Tucker cheerfully answers her questions about the father’s school: no cleaning crew, yes brain scans, counselling once a month, no talk circle, what’s talk circle…They get to call home for an hour every Sunday. No one has ever lost phone privileges…For the most part, it’s been a supportive group.”

We’ve come a long way, but most of our real-life societies are not very different from Chan’s imaginary one.

Mothers generally have the larger parenting load. They’re still expected to be natural nurturers.

Researcher Kate Prickett says motherhood has actually expanded.

In heterosexual co-parenting, both parents are spending more time with their kids, she says, but alongside the demands of work, mothers are doing the running around, organizing, and more intensive routine childrearing, while fathers (in general) are doing more of the fun stuff.

It’s expected to be a natural thing — but it’s not.

When I became a mother, I realized what a blank slate “mothering” was for me. It wasn’t going to be completely natural.

For a start, I was raised for much of my childhood by my father.

My sleep deprived mother — with three kids under two — suffered from postpartum depression and, after six years struggling at home, she decided to leave. Back then postpartum depression wasn’t something people understood or knew to look out for.

“All they could see was a bad mother “abandoning” her babies; a woman choosing her career over her children.”

Her friends didn’t offer support. All they could see was a bad mother “abandoning” her babies; a woman choosing her career over her children. They couldn’t see she was hurting and wanting to protect us from her pain. She lost most of her friends.

They thought her leaving was unforgiveable.

Was what Frida did unforgiveable too?

I have to admit when I started reading The School for Good Mothers I was angry at the main character.

Frida left her small child alone for over two hours. Two hours? She could have died. The house could have burnt down. She could have been kidnapped.

My brain went into catastrophizing overdrive against this imaginary mother. (The abandonment might have been triggering for me, if I’m honest.)

I’m sorry, but she is a bad mother, I thought. I almost put the book down. But I decided to keep reading and I’m glad I did.

There’s no denying what Frida did was wrong. As you read on though, you can’t help but develop empathy for her, especially once you understand her situation and see her reflect on it.

“Frida begins to weep. She needs to tell the judge about the house of her mind in the house of her body. Those houses are cleaner now and less afraid. She would never leave Harriet like that, not again.”

Of course, she should have taken her child with her, but we can understand the exhaustion and stress driving her poor-decision making. Frida is dealing with a cheating (now-ex) husband, a new baby, and a demanding career with almost no physical or emotional support. She feels isolated, alone, and overwhelmed.

Could any of us cope well in the same situation? The mental load of mothering is surprising and heavy. Add more life stresses onto that and well…

Maybe we wouldn’t leave our child, but maybe we’d stare at our phones for too long, completely disengaged. Maybe we’d drink too much or stay in bed all day?

Maybe we’d need to find help.

Is it better now?

If my mother had children in today’s society, with our greater understanding of depression and trauma, she might have received help.

Possibly. Although many people today still struggle to get the mental health support and services they desperately need. It’s better than it was, but far from great.

It would at least be socially acceptable for my mother to go to work and my dad to stay home, or for them to hire a nanny.

“It made logical and financial sense for my mother, a savvy business woman, to be in the office as far away from nappies, bottles, and crying babies as possible”

Would she still be called a bad mother by her friends? Or would they — all career women themselves — nod their heads and agree it made logical and financial sense for my mother, a savvy business woman, to be in the office as far away from nappies, bottles, and crying babies as possible?

But that’s not how it was back then. Even she believed she was a bad mother.

When we grew up, my sisters and I felt a bit nervous about having kids.

Would we struggle with mothering, like our own mother did? Was the ability to be nurturing inherited and we’d missed out on that gene?

Out of my worry, I applied myself to learning. I read every parenting book around. I wasn’t just going to be a good mother; I wanted to be the perfect one. Feeding schedules. Sleep techniques. Developmental stages. I even took a five year degree in child development, psychology, and education.

“I became a swaying, swaddling, shushing zombie, unable to think beyond the next hour, the next feed, the next sleep.”

Some of the study was useful, but the baby books backfired. My daughter arrived 7 weeks early and none of the rules and routines worked. She developed severe reflux, cried for long hours and sleep for short ones. I became a swaying, swaddling, shushing zombie, unable to think beyond the next hour, the next feed, the next sleep. The books made me feel like a complete failure.

When she was around 8 weeks old, I decided to go to a mother’s group. Maybe it would help to have other mothers to commiserate with. Mother’s who might make me feel less alone. Who’d say, “I’m so tired too.” And we’d laugh about how much it felt like sleep torture. Laugh because our babies won’t stop crying and we can’t stop crying and at least we’re all in it together!

Except it wasn’t like that at all.

It was my own School for Mother’s experience

Each week a different woman would host the group. When I turned up at the address my midwife gave me, I felt intimidated before I even entered the house. It was huge and shiny. I followed the host into the open lounge-kitchen area. No laundry piles. No dishes left in the sink. No layer of dust on the top of the television.

No signs of newborn struggle.

A group of equally shiny mothers sat in a circle— perfect hair, makeup in place, well-rested, happy babies on their laps.

I know people put on a good show for strangers.

I wanted to imagine them all falling apart when they got home, weeping into their unlaundered, sweat-stained pillows, ruining their mascara and frizzing up their hair, but if it was a show, it was a convincing one.

“I wanted to imagine them all falling apart when they got home, weeping into their unlaundered, sweat-stained pillows, ruining their mascara and frizzing up their hair”

They welcomed me and invited me to sit. I put on my own show: smiled and introduced myself as if my brain wasn’t half-full of rotting sludge. I sat carefully. My sweet baby had fallen asleep in her detachable car seat, after 20 minutes of screaming, and I desperately needed her to stay that way.

After a few minutes, the already-back-to-pre-baby-weight host mother got up.

“I’ll just pop bub to bed. It’s her nap time,” she apologized. She disappeared with her child, and then almost instantly reappeared without.

“Did she go down that quick?” I asked, stunned. Naptime was a carefully negotiated process at my house. Wrapping, wrestling, crying, singing, pleading, finger crossing. I’d tried everything in the books, but it was never quick.

“She was still awake when I left, but she’ll be asleep by now.”

After that, I gave up on mothers’ groups and baby books. I would rather struggle along on my own than have my failures shoved in my face.

I’m sure The School for Good Mothers would have given me a zero for comforting my child in her early days, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

But who are the good mothers?

The ones who look like they have it all together, with their angel babies going down for a nap in seconds. The mothers who, sleep deprived and managing a sick baby, keep trying even when it looks like they’re failing.

Or maybe the mothers who know when to hand care over to someone else, like my mother did, to keep the kids safe?

“the abusive, neglectful, or narcissistic mothers, they don’t care or bother to ask if they’re doing a good or bad job.”

The truly bad mothers — bad doesn’t even feel like the right word to use — the abusive, neglectful, or narcissistic mothers, they don’t care or bother to ask if they’re doing a good or bad job. Mothers who ask themselves “am I doing okay at this?” are usually doing pretty well from what I’ve seen.

Not perfect. Who’s perfect? My parents weren’t and I’m certainly not.

One thing that made my mum a better parent over the years was the fact she was humble about it. She knew where she was failing and always wanted us to feel loved, safe, and supported. She wanted, and still does, the best for us, even if that meant being raised by someone else.

I have to wonder too, can we accurately grade our own parenting?

Can we decide if we’re a good or bad parent? Most of us are probably too harsh on ourselves.

It would be great if we could stop judging ourselves as good or bad, and start being a little kinder. We all have good days and bad days. Chan’s book highlights that. Parenting is hard, and it’s okay to need help. We make mistakes and we’re all learning as we go.

Perhaps the only bad mothers are the ones who won’t take responsibility for their flaws. The ones who blame others, or their kids, for their actions.

The world created by Chan in her book is not a kind one for mothers. It’s judgmental, harsh, unforgiving, and expects perfection. Perhaps it’s a world that’s a little too close to reality?

I hope we’re able to create a real-life world that’s far less terrifying and a lot more supportive.

The School For Good Mothers by Jessamine Chan. 

If you feel you may be suffering from postpartum depression or other mental health concerns, there is help available. Here are some resources if you’re in the US. 

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