the mommies dearest of literature

The Lit List No. 10

The first time I remember seeing a bad mother as entertainment was while watching the movie Mommie Dearest (with my own mother, which was perhaps brave of her), based on the real story of how Joan Crawford was a terrible mother who so desperately wanted to adopt her children only to abuse them verbally and physically. I was terrified of the controlling, meticulous Faye Dunaway, who made a bad movie into the campy mess that we see it as today. I remember my mom trying to explain that not all moms are nice moms, but without any personal context, I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept of a “bad mother.”

What my mom was really saying is that all moms are human and I was too privileged to have had examples of mothers in my life whose circumstances meant that nurturing sometimes came second to survival. Because my mom did her job with plenty of resources, my lack of context at an early age only fueled my fascination of mothers seemingly at their limits. At the time, and even now, I wondered if even the best of mothers can sometimes relate to the motivations — but importantly, not the actions! — of Dunaway’s Crawford character.

There’s no shortage of literature and commentary on motherhood, but every time I think “surely we’re nearing saturation and there can’t be another original thought,” I read something that gives me new perspective. While we have endless examples of motherhood as a spectrum, we’re left to define “good mothers” and “bad mothers” ourselves, making judgments of fictional characters that bleed into our judgment of real-life mothers.

It’s easier to imagine a quintessential, yet stereotypical, modern good mother — attentive, supportive, patient, loving, devoted. On social media, she’s probably posting photos that make it look easy, or at least easier, and more fun. Maybe she performs “bad” parenting in a way that makes her seem relatable to other moms — she admits she lets her kids have fast food when she’s tired of cooking or plants them in front of the TV when she needs a break. But expressing shame makes normal, momentary lapses in rule enforcement sound taboo and still upholds the rigid structure of “good” motherhood by making other women question their own parenting.

She might parrot the “nobody’s perfect” rhetoric, claiming to want to normalize messy motherhood — as long as that mess is palatable, contained to one large wine tumbler with the words “mommy juice” on the side, and doesn’t disrupt traditional expectations of motherhood. The modern Instagram “bad” mom often feels very performative to me and isn’t all that revolutionary because she still declares her identity as a mother first and foremost, which is what we expect (and, to be clear, is a personal choice that isn’t a bad thing, as long as it’s a choice).

But the reason it’s nearly impossible for women to uphold traditional gendered beliefs about good parenting is because the perfect mom is crucially only a mother. A woman expressing interests, desires, or opinions outside of her role as mother (and occasionally, wife) is a misstep, a crack in the façade.

I’ve always been more fascinated by literary bad moms than the good ones (or the “good” ones): the extreme mommies dearest, the women compromising their parenting abilities because they haven’t been allowed to both reject motherhood as a singular identity and excel at it. Women putting themselves first or refusing to relinquish their pre-parenthood selves in favor of “mommy” isn’t radical and it certainly isn’t bad mothering, but the onslaught of unsolicited parenting advice on the internet can make it look that way. I imagine all moms have felt like selfish, bad moms just for occasionally wanting to put themselves first.

Are we obsessed with reading and writing about bad mothers because we’re trying to humanize them or because we’re internally disgusted by them? Taking it to the extreme, showing women who are undeniably, objectively bad at being mothers, is, to me, humanizing. There are no requirements to enter motherhood. Women do not have to pass a fitness test to allow a tiny fetus to colonize their uteruses or adopt or foster a child. To mother is to be human.

However, the gross fascination with truly bad mothers must come from harboring at least a little disgust, a self-preserving reaction to a system that only allows a woman to succeed if it comes at the expense of another. We can comfort ourselves with the assumption that as mothers ourselves, we would never behave this way. But how do you ever know?

Because this is supposedly a bookish Substack and I’m most interested in how this plays out in literature rather than real life, where far more nuance is required, I’ve been compiling a very sparse list of Bad Mom Lit books I’ve read or plan to read. Bad Mom Lit has always been popular, but it seems to be downright thriving right now (is this examination of motherhood part of the vibe shift?)

I’m defining Bad Mom Lit as books whose central theme or plot hinges on not only an imperfect mother but one the reader is supposed to see as an actively bad one, though objectivity is relative here, and often, they’re not actually a villain. “Bad” could be sinister intentions, an apathetic parenting stance, a critical misstep, anything that fundamentally shifts how readers are supposed to view a character.

I’m missing so many — again, there’s no shortage here, and I haven’t read many of the older novels and classics that pioneered this theme.

• With Teeth by Kristen Arnett

• I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness by Claire Vaye Watkins

• Milk Fed by Melissa Broder

• The Push by Ashley Audrain (still on my TBR)

• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (this isn’t Bad Mom Lit by any means, but Cathy Ames was a formative character in my teenage years)

• The School for Good Mothers by Jessamine Chan (a DNF for me, but I do want to come back to it)

• Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (also technically not Bad Mom Lit, but I don’t think this needs an explanation)

• Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder (I have yet to read it, but soon, because there’s a screen adaptation coming!)

• Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters (this is less about the actual mothering, but motherhood is so central to the plot — along with the very real worry about inadvertently becoming a bad mother — that I wanted to include it. It’s more the preparation for motherhood, deciding who gets to be a mom, how we define “objectively bad” and why that’s so broadly defined that it’s constricting)

In our society, the most evil thing you can be is a bad mother. We’re all guilty of, when hearing a story of a mother walking away, making proclamations like “fathers leave all the time, but I don’t understand how any mother could abandon her own child.” How many times have we seen a story in the news about a mother snapping, killing all her children, and the public’s response is, “it takes a special kind of evil for a mother of all people to do that to her own children. I could never.” (Why is it that everyone feels the need to state that they wouldn’t kill their children — I mean, yes? I assumed? I hoped?) But when it’s the father who chooses infanticide, the response is only “that’s terrible.”

Motherhood is defined by dichotomies: the classic good versus bad, inherently narrow; a binary that defines motherhood and fatherhood within gendered norms that are constantly at odds with each other; and present versus absent, which overlaps with nurturing versus neglectful.

Fathers are usually given the freedom to define their own roles, and we’re not shocked when one strays off course because there was hardly a course to begin with. But we’ve rarely allowed for individuality in the definition of motherhood. It always comes down to the dichotomy: Are you a good mother or a bad one?

If the worst thing you can be in society is a bad mother, the most hated character in a book is the bad mother. It’s entertaining, sure, but the authors who give us the best characters go beyond good vs. bad and examine the “why,” which is almost always suffering, whether that’s at the hands of others, an effect of mental illness, or due to being trapped in a role that looks different than they anticipated or that they never wanted at all.

Of the books I’ve read, one mother stands out as intentionally and irredeemably evil: Cathy Ames, “malformed soul,” in John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. There’s an argument to be made that she too is suffering, specifically from the barriers to independence as a woman, but it’s clear that Steinbeck intended for Cathy to be an Eve character whose culpability in others’ suffering — particularly in men’s — refutes any sympathy she might have otherwise garnered. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume Steinbeck was firmly in the “the worst thing a woman can be is a bad mother” philosophical camp.

Other bad mothers actively cause harm, but the reader isn’t led to believe it’s out of purely malicious intent. In Milk Fed by Melissa Broder, Rachel’s mother encourages her daughter’s eating disorder, creating an enmeshed and codependent relationship that benefits neither woman. And while we’re not given a deep look into Rachel’s mother’s psyche to examine her own suffering, it’s implied that her bad mothering is not done out of hatred and intent to harm. It’s common for eating disorders to be inadvertently passed down from mother to child, and Milk Fed sits readers inside their own discomfort as they’re forced to decide what’s intentional and what explanations to accept.

Mrs. Bennet, the OG bad mom in Pride and Prejudice, is strident, self-centered, and overbearing because she’s exhausted and alone. Her husband is passive at best — though of course, being the father, he’s largely excused — and leaves Mrs. Bennet to feel as if it’s her sole responsibility to financially support her family in a time when daughters were considered burdensome. I’m going to assume Mrs. Bennet didn’t want five children but was given no choice as a woman with no agency, so instead she turns her suffering into her daughters’ problem.

I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness is autobiographical fiction, leading the reader to assume that Claire Vaye Watkins’ protagonist — who leaves her husband and baby behind on a work trip and decides not to return — is a rendering of the author herself. ILYBICD’s presentation of “bad” motherhood is a dissection of womanhood and expectations.

Watkins gives us a self-destructive, desperate woman, one who is difficult to support as long as we hold onto the good vs. bad dichotomy of motherhood. At the root of the dichotomy, though, is desire. If women’s desire is heavily policed, mothers’ desire is forcibly removed. With the expectation that a woman’s identity will shift so entirely upon birth that it can only be defined by a relationship to children, a woman who desires something selfishly or unapologetically is deemed a bad mother, in literature or otherwise.

Women’s desire is explored often in the kind of hot girl novels popular on bookstagram as of late, whether that’s for a longing for sex, success, or acceptance. But I particularly love it when books allow mothers to desire in a human way, off the pedestal they’re chained to. These mothers are allowed to own their desire, or be ashamed of it, or be ruined by it, but most importantly, they’re allowed to have it. Watkins’ character wants plenty — ultimately, independence — but the question is what we allow women like her to take when we expect them to only give.

A favorite of mine in the Bad Mom Lit genre is With Teeth by Kristen Arnett, which gives us two unlikeable but relatable bad moms. It’s a look at motherhood that exists in the gray area between good and bad.

Protagonist Sammie’s desire for change is so desperate and palpable that the entire novel feels sticky with Arnett’s signature Floridian humidity. It’s that desire for space, individuality, and love that makes her a “bad” mom, even going so far as to bite her uncontrollable, disturbing son. It asks the question: “Does not liking your child make you a bad mother?”

With Teeth delves into what it means for a mother to be “well-intentioned” and for whom those intentions are considered good. Sammie and her wife, Monika, have different intentions for their son, but neither would consider their own intentions misguided. Such is the dynamic in all parenting relationships, though it’s more often the mother’s intentions and follow-through that are dissected and less often the father’s. What makes With Teeth’s co-parenting interesting, then, is that it isn’t heteronormative, though both women play gendered roles at times. Sammie and Monika are each struggling to define what makes a good mom in a lesbian relationship that, ostensibly, should allow for less-rigid boundaries of motherhood than a relationship with prescribed male-female gender roles.

Most bad mothers we encounter in literature aren’t criminal or abusive. Most never intended to cause their children harm, and some even tried to do their best with what they had. A lack of intent doesn’t make trauma any less harmful, but it does present a good argument against the good vs. bad dichotomy.

Almost every woman I’ve spoken to who either doesn’t want children or is unsure mentions feelings of guilt, even if they can’t pinpoint the origin or know better. Our identities as women are so wrapped up in our ability to mother — not necessarily to conceive, but the act of mothering itself, in the broadest sense — that it’s easy to feel like you’ve done something wrong by not participating, that you’ve been labeled a bad mother just for opting out or being unable to participate.

I’ve never wanted children of my own, though I spent a long time hoping the feeling would change and trying to convince myself otherwise. Once my partner and I decided not to have kids and I was free to speak a child-free future into existence, I felt nothing but relief that I’m grateful for daily. Since turning 30, people seem to take me more seriously, as if in my 20s it wasn’t a choice I was capable of making — or I’m just so close to a shriveled up uterus that everyone’s hanging their heads in resignation.

I have my specific reasons for not wanting to be a mother, but above all logic, there’s an innate feeling that I do not want, and shouldn’t have, children. I don’t usually volunteer an explanation unprompted because it invites a debate that can turn into a weird sort of pleading and bargaining as if it personally affects anyone other than me. Explaining myself can also occasionally turn people with children defensive while they immediately try to justify their decisions and choices as if I were judging them, despite it being other way around.

It's interesting to me that one of the arguments people use when trying to convince you to have children is “but you’d make such a good mom!” when we know how difficult it is for mothers, how heavily they’re scrutinized. Funny enough, it’s my own mother who has never once questioned my decision to remain childless. Her support and assurance have given me the confidence to assert myself when conversations about pregnancy and motherhood feel like they’re turning on me. She understands that whether I’d be a good mom or not is irrelevant. She understands that it takes a village to raise children, and I’m glad to take part in that with my friends’ beautiful babies and future nieces or nephews.

In many Bad Mom Lit books, our favorite bad mothers don’t have that village and are alone: They’re either emotionally lonely, physically isolated, or a maddening combination of both. They often don’t have the resources they need to parent. They’re suffering, and they’re punished for it.

When mothers are given support, both with child-rearing and emotionally, they’re given the freedom to make choices, form identities, exist as women outside of their abilities to parent. Broadening the definition of motherhood — allowing the mothering to come from fathers, family members, friends, neighbors — not only subverts the good vs. bad dichotomy, but it also gives mothers a chance to succeed.

The fun of Bad Mom Lit is that authors can test our limits with horrific characters. When confronted with literary bad mothers, readers are required to define parenting, gender roles, and womanhood for themselves, and maybe it’ll create a little more tolerance and understand for real life mothers as well — both good and bad, plus all the ones in between.

And it’d be impossible for me to look at all of this and not think of a country without Roe v. Wade, which by saving people with uteruses from unwanted parenthood has undoubtedly saved many from bad parenthood as well. I like stories about bad moms because I like stories of women feeling their desperation loudly, refusing to kill their inner selves for what’s expected of them. I like stories about bad moms because I want motherhood to remain a decision, and without that, there will be so many moms for whom being good or bad is irrelevant.

As always happens when reproductive rights are in question, people have been unable to resist the comparison to The Handmaid’s Tale, the similarities of which to our current times I’ll acknowledge here since I’m supposed to be talking about books, but to reduce the issue of abortion access to a fictionalized account from the 80s is to whitewash America’s history (and continuation) of imposing pregnancy and motherhood on women of color.

There are certain women who will be set up for “bad” motherhood from the start, and certain women whose privilege will allow them to escape the label despite deserving it. A woman’s circumstances often determine her status as a mother more than her performance because we make assumptions about her ability and competency. When she proves us right by failing to live up to those assumptions, we use it as evidence to judge not only her but others like her.

There are bad people who become bad mothers, there are good people who become bad mothers, and there are people who just become mothers. In both literature and reality, a bad mother is simply a woman.

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This might be my longest substack yet, so thanks for reading and/or pretending to read. If you’re new here and want to subscribe, you’ll only hear from me a few times a year, though I’ll insist that some day it’ll be more frequent, because writing things like this reminds me why I’m an editor and why I’d like to remain an editor.

I want your Bad Mom Lit recommendations — do you have a favorite book or character, what would you like to see done with fictionalized bad moms going forward, do you think it’s fair, do you think I’m completely wrong, etc.

Also a shoutout to the moms in my life — my mom and my grandmother and aunts, of course, but also my friends who, in the last couple of years, have opened my eyes to the joys and perils and in-betweens of motherhood. It feels so obnoxiously earnest to say that it has been a privilege to watch people I love become parents, but that’s really what it is.

And just because it was Mother’s Day this month and I have a really good mom who will see the humor in having her photo included in a newsletter about bad moms, a bonus selfie from earlier this spring: