“Dirty” Magazines

I know what you’re thinking, what could a parenting and depression blog possibly have to do with porn? Well nothing, and everything.

When I was 14 I saw my first porno mag — in my father’s armoire. He had passed away two years earlier and I was searching for photos for an album I was making my mother. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath countless 4×6 packs of Kodak film, belts, and Father’s Day type t-shirts (the one’s with neon colors, strange fonts and stranger expressions like “This big kid is also a Dad” or “#1 Daddy Dude”), I saw its high-gloss cover. Finding it felt wrong, not because it was porn but because it was my father’s. I felt dirty.

17 years later, that same dirty feeling returned. I wasn’t rifling through my dead Dad’s belongings, I was sitting at my OBGYN’s office, waiting with my husband and daughter for a routine appointment. As she ran around, engulfing her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and waving her sticky fingers at the receptionist, I glanced at the end table (which had quickly become my daughter’s personal toy box). Pregnancy and parenting magazines sat beside pamphlets on cord blood donations. Each cover had a flawless pic of a pregnant celebrity alongside headlines about dietary restrictions and tips and tricks for an “easy” labor which — newsflash — there is no such thing.

I felt ashamed; I felt wrong, but why?

Full disclosure: I read these magazines during my pregnancy. As a first-time mom I wanted to absorb every ounce of information I could. But their glossy-coated pages, with their diluted advice and picture perfect parenting, were not me. I had as much in common with the celebrity on the cover as I did with the topless silicone-enhanced figure from my 14-year-old past.

I understand the intention of these magazines, and maybe some moms and moms-to-be find comfort in each column, but I don’t. Instead I see these magazines as an affirmation I am failing (though I know I am not). They made me feel bad about not having an adequate nursery. They — still —  make me feel bad about allowing my daughter to watch an episode of Sesame Street, and these stories made me have an anxiety attack when I ate a slice of pepperoni pizza while five months pregnant.

So I’m shelving this type of content and sticking to real stories, stories that talk about being a mommy in the real world — without a personal trainer or assistant or shit ton of money. And I’m going to keep writing content without any sugar-coating because that is what we mom’s really need. That is what I need.