Matrescence
Recently, I encountered a word that I’d never heard before.
There really is power in words. In naming a thing.
There I was walking around the last nineteen months of motherhood in a perpetual, disorienting fog. I tried my hand at describing it: exhaustion, isolation, loneliness.
But those words fell short. They could be applied to other situations. They didn’t quite do it.
Matrescence is a term coined to describe the transition into motherhood. It is a biological, psychological, and physiological period that all mothers experience.
It’s called matrescence because it’s a maternal adolescence – a period of rebirth, a complete overhaul of all elements of life. A rite of passage.
But unlike adolescence, this transition doesn’t have a definitive place in culture. It doesn’t have a genre of movies dedicated to it. It doesn’t have a fiction section in the library. It doesn’t include a time of formal learning, the support of dozens of mentors, familiar mile-markers like your first kiss, your driver’s test, or the senior prom. It doesn’t include the solidarity of sports teams, youth groups and summer camps.
Nope.
This massive, universal transition that all mothers experience exists as a gaping black hole not only in popular culture, but medical culture, mental health practice, and community structure.
Don’t believe me?
Ask a mother.
By and large mothers go through the harrowing process of labor and then they’re given a bracelet with their name on it and a few pamphlets and maybe some Advil.
Some well meaning person in scrubs might smile and say, “don’t forget to look after yourself! Make sure you join a mom’s group! Good luck!”
And that’s about it.
A few weeks later the same new mother has an appointment with a doctor. She is asked: are you emotionally overwhelmed? Are you depressed? Are you finding it hard to be motivated?
Does the Pope wear a funny hat?
You’d think we would have learned as a society to do better toward mothers. To treat this enormous period of change with the delicate grace and nurture that it absolutely seems to warrant, if other major transitions like adolescence are any indicator.
I say this as a high school teacher that spent more than a decade with adolescents.
I had a front row seat to the process of developmental change. I saw the pain, the discomfort, the growth. All of it.
And that’s the thing. I saw it. Because schools are a thing, and teachers, and classrooms, and coaches, and youth pastors, and music teachers, and skating instructors, and all the scores and scores of adult guides on offer for most teenagers.
We seem to inherently accept the premise that these unwieldy, alien-like beings need tons of help from bigger, stronger, seasoned people. So we give it – for free, even, at public schools! – and it’s not just one person.
Usually it’s dozens.
I know because I was one of them.
New mothers are not given the benefit of such generous perception. They are not given the kindness of being seen in this way – of being acknowledged as trekking through extremely difficult territory.
If new mothers were given the dignity of a sober view of their role, support structures would exist in an entirely different way.
Instead new mothers are told “you got this” and “don’t forget self-care.”
Take a long bath. Spend time reading by yourself. Paint your nails.
More like nails on a chalkboard.
You think a soak for 20 minutes is going to begin to address the existential anguish and overwhelming fatigue I currently feel? Are you serious?
Frankly I can’t imagine telling one of my ninth graders the equivalent.
“Oh, you just failed math. Why don’t you go home and eat some Doritos for twenty minutes? Or Cheetos. Treat yourself. You’ll feel better.”
Are you serious?
Here’s what I’d say:
Do you know where the after school math help clinic is? Do you know the teacher? Do you have a ride home if you stay after? Do you know your bus number if you want to take the after-school bus? Does your calculator work? Would you prefer one-to-one help? Are you worried about your parents’ reaction? Would you like help in talking to them? Would you rather me butt out? What would help you to try again?
Can you imagine if teenagers were expected to navigate that horribly uncomfortable time with the support in place that most moms have?
A lucky new mother (increasingly rare these days) has at least one parent a short enough drive away to be able to babysit or come over and help on a regular-ish basis. A lucky mother has a church or spiritual community or work network which includes older women with time to spend helping her occasionally. A lucky mother has a generous enough income to afford a babysitter, takeout when she’s too tired to cook, delivery groceries, and a cleaner.
But even with all that, we’re talking just a few hours (if that!) of relational mentoring, support, nurture, and guidance per week.
Most new moms get far less than that.
That’s the amount of time a teenager spends during two classes in a given school day.
Most school days involve eight classes.
Imagine for a moment if a teenager’s life is spent the way new moms navigate early motherhood: largely in isolation, maybe once or twice a week in a group of peers, and maybe a handful of times a month through very short check-ins with experienced adults.
The world would be Lord of the Flies.
Or worse.
Here’s what I should have been asked by my doctor:
Do your parents live in the area? What about an aunt or an uncle? Do you have a doula? Do you have a maternity nurse that can come over? Do you have a mentor that can be with you a few times a week? Do you know any older mothers in your community with space and time to spend time with you? Can you afford a cleaner? Do you have a baby-sitter? Do you have a budget for a baby-sitter so you can spend time with your husband? Do you have any friends that you’d trust to take your baby for a walk for an hour?
No one asked me those questions.
To me, that’s like expecting a teenager to go from freshman year to senior year alone.
We can’t imagine it because it’s unimaginable. But it’s what we do to mothers.
It doesn’t have to be this way. We just need a bit of creativity: mother mentors, community based baby-sitting networks, meals on wheels for exhausted mothers, Boy Scouts that come over to clean for mothers.
Should I go on? I’ve got ideas.
I’m just waiting for the world to catch up.