My interest in writing about motherhood started with several of my undergraduate professors on the green, rolling campus of Michigan State University. Professor Henry once wondered aloud why more horror stories didn’t focus on birth, which was surely just as bloody and traumatic as deaths. Professor Penn once told me confidently that I would quit whatever it was I planned on doing to become a mother, because that was what all women did and also, apropos of nothing, that women were incapable of bonding with their adopted children.
He was an asshole.
But both professors put a seed in my brain that eventually resulted in The Unmothers. Why do we see women as primarily blessed, pure vessels of birth and motherhood—not only by choice but by irresistible nature—yet these elements of the human experience are often the most dangerous, messy, fraught, and physically challenging. Not to mention, and I say this as a mother of a four-year-old whom I love dearly, sticky and gross!
These ideas rattled around my brain as I went to grad school, failed to get a teaching job after graduation, moved around the US looking for work, and finally settled in Ohio, made friends, and watched them struggle with pregnancy, parenthood, and motherhood.
And when I say “struggle” I naturally mean the physical challenges and the dangers inherent in labor, but also the sudden change in how they were perceived and treated. Some academic friends told me stories of department heads who asked why they’d ruined their careers. Coworkers mentioned to me that they couldn’t go to lunch with me alone, lest someone see us together and tell themselves an absurd and salacious story. A trans friend was asked if they were going to “give all that nonsense up now.”
One of the things I love about the horror genre is the way it shows the complexities of human life by refusing to shy away from the frightening and disgusting, confusing and infuriating. This is one of the reasons why horror movies and books centering motherhood are so moving and iconic. We fear the broken mother, the broken bond of childhood, and the broken child. And yet, unlike the common ax murderer, all of us will encounter one of these wounds in our lifetime, or at least encounter another human with that wound.
That said, there’s a tendency to group all motherhood-related horror together, but I would argue that we have been blessed with a glut of wonderful dark books and movies on motherhood, and they fall primarily into three groups— a mother’s fear of her own child, a child’s fear of their mother, and a mother’s horror at the changes happening to her mind and body.
My Kid is Scary
This theme is most clearly articulated in films such as Rosemary’s Baby and We Need to Talk About Kevin. I love this kind of movie because, let’s be honest, children have a natural ability to be creepy. I recall one evening when I was tucking my toddler in and he leaned close and whispered “They’re coming. They’re getting closer.”
After I had a small heart attack, a series of questions revealed that he meant he could hear a train and that it was getting louder. But come on, buddy!
Another time we pointed into a cemetery and yelled “ghost!” a word we had not yet taught him. Children are naturally scary.
After having kids, these kind of movies meant all the more to me. An element of parenthood we don’t often put into words is that we are welcoming an entirely new person into our lives. Although we may be able to predict some elements of their personality, I quickly learned from experience that every child is very much their own, and though you can push the boat a little, they have complete control over the rudder.
And so a new fear is born in your heart—what if I have created a monster? When will I know? Will I know? And if I do discover that the heart walking outside my chest is evil, what can I possibly do in that situation.
Evil Mom is Mean
Classic examples include Coraline and Carrie. This kind of story is more about the horror of childhood than motherhood. Yet, once again, I saw them differently after I myself became a mother. Although I previously understood the fear of a caretaker turning against you—a truly deeply rooted childhood fear, a new one was born as I raised an infant, then toddler, then small child.
What if I was failing my children? Carrie’s mother, after all, was trying to do her best for her daughter. She earnestly believed in hell, and that her child was in danger. If we, as an audience, truly agreed with her, would we still see her as a villain? Likewise, I wonder constantly if I am doing the actual best for my child. Will I be remembered fondly or as the source of their suffering? Will I build them strong and brave, or accidentally break something inside them?
Motherhood is Changing Me (Probably For The Worst)
This trope is more common in modern works, perhaps because all woman-focused storytelling is fairly new. Some wonderful examples are Night Bitch and What Kind of Mother.
I did know a few people who sailed through pregnancy— gained little weight, slept soundly, looked glowing and full of new and exciting life. Not me! I threw up almost daily. Everything hurt. I could barely sleep two hours at a time, and I looked it. I felt an intense detachment from my body and the things happening to it even for years after I gave birth. Then, of course, there were the mental hurdles. I struggled to know how to feel, or to own the negative feelings I was willing to admit. None of this was helped by every professional insisting that all this was very normal and my distress was not only unnecessary, but a little annoying.
I remember once putting the baby down and trying to watch a movie in which a little boy gets lost for a few moments. I found myself sobbing, my hormones or brain chemistry or something completely taking control of my normally stalwart self.
If you see two new mothers with their heads bent toward each other, chances are they are talking about how truly wild the changes to their bodies and minds are. It is no surprise that it is a quick half step to horror. Sometimes not even a step. I’ve lost enough blood on hospital floors to know that Professor Henry was right. Birth can be horrific.
I understand that some readers may be uncomfortable with my glee at seeing motherhood depicted as horrific, but I do not believe that the subjects of most horror stories are not depicted as wholly good or evil, but in fact complicated. I know that many people find their fears mirrored in the horror genre and writing these pieces requires not masochism, but an empathetic understanding of humanity. It makes me feel delightfully seen when we discuss motherhood not as a blessing or some kind of biological imperative, but as a complex and sometimes challenging aspect of life. There is still so much more to explore on this topic, and I look forward to seeing more of these stories in the future.
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