In a recent survey, 42% of mothers said that they “sometimes suffer from Pinterest stress.” According to Today.com, “Symptoms include staying up until 3am clicking through photos of exquisite hand-made birthday party favors even though you’ll end up buying yours at the dollar store, or sobbing quietly into a burnt mess of expensive ingredients that were supposed to be adorable bunny cookies for the school bake sale.”
I’ll admit. I’ve been sucked in by the radiating allure of Pinterest and the joy it promises. My DIY bangs turned out to be a hack job. My super easy gingerbread men on a stick looked like the walking gingerdead. And that awesome no-fail dessert everyone was pinning, failed on me. It turned into soup. And our guests politely insisted on sampling it and sipping their cake from their bowls like stew.
“Well, it tastes like pudding,” our friend kindly said. They haven’t been over since. I think Pinterest is trying to kill me. But you know what? White girl problems.
I tell this to my daughter. She is two and blonde and beloved by a whole host of wonderful people. So when she cries because her strawberry pancakes have too many strawberries or because I turned off Mickey Mouse. And not just cries, but throws herself to the ground in a righteous rage, I have three words for her before I walk away: White. Girl. Problems.
Right after I got married, the Today Show ran a segment on post-wedding depression, a condition where brides sink into a malaise because they are no longer the center of attention. “You know what I call that?” My dad said when I showed him the article, “Whiny white girl disease!” Now, I’m a mum and we’re all whining over “mummy wars” and Pinterest stress and all those things that well-fed, middle class people with iPhones have to worry about.
Mummy wars? You know who has mummy wars? Women with enough time and disposable income to bemoan the fact that others are “judging” them for how they feed their kids? Pinterest stress? That’s what you get when you need a problem.
I’m raising children in a privileged world. We have food. Money to save for an education. At two, my daughter has a room that is bigger than any room I’ve ever occupied in my life. We can afford the fancy Easter dress. When we have a bad day, we can afford to get a special treat. I’m glad I’m raising a child in this environment. In fact, my husband and I waited to have kids just so we could do things like take holidays to Florida. But now that we are here, I wonder if we are doing things the right way?
I remember as a teenager, I was upset because my parents promised to let me see a movie and then back pedaled at the last second. I was like North Korea with a missile. “That is so unfair!” I whined. “At least have the decency to live up to your promises.”
My dad lost it. “You know what’s unfair? Having to make funeral arrangement s for your older sister who died at 17 because your parents were too grief-stricken to handle it.”
I should have stopped. But I didn’t. “That’s hardly the standard we should apply to this situation…”
“GET TO YOUR ROOM!”
I did. I lost. I’m glad I did.
And while I don’t ever want my daughter to feel the pain of real trouble, I wonder just how I can raise a human in this environment, where she is completely inoculated against such petulant whiny diseases? Pain of course is relative. And having financial security doesn’t protect against problems. Real problems. But how do I teach my children that petty problems aren’t worth their time? That failure makes you stronger and that social media induced ennui means you should probably shut the computer and read a book. A real book.
I don’t know the answer. But I do know that as a parent it begins with me. I set the limits. We won’t do Elf on the Shelf because mum has enough trouble getting cookies baked over Christmas. The tooth fairy only brings 50c. There is no adjustment for inflation. Your birthday cake will probably always come from the store. I didn’t buy baby moccasins because the ROI on that investment was one good instagram picture. Your food won’t be all organic. Yes, I used formula. Walk to school. There is no second breakfast or special dinner for you. I don’t do supermarket trolley covers or antiseptic wipes. I don’t care if that kid took your toy. Or if the neighbour sneezed on you. Time out occurs at anytime or anywhere, so be on alert.
This is where we begin. My refusal to compare myself with the other mother I see on the internet and to build a life that embraces the important and repels the petty. And I only hope that lesson extends. If not, I am building a backlog of “Oh, you want to see not fair?” lectures. Just in case.
How you avoid spoiling your child?