“Motherhood is the most beautiful part of a woman’s life,” gush women on social media, Archie’s cards and now, PR professionals representing ‘luxury birthing facilities’, lying outright, to hide the scary truth. Motherhood isn’t the haloed experience it is made out to be. Nor is it, as some women put it, the best ‘job’ they’ve done.

First things first — no one hired you to be a mother, and sadly, you didn’t have to go through an interview (most of us wouldn’t have passed — just ask your kid). So no, it’s not a job. When we gave birth, we were committing to a relationship, except, unlike marriage, there’s no honeymoon period — from potty to puberty and beyond.

I once met a senior editor at a party, who said she had to get home early, because her son had surgery the next day. “How old is he?” we asked, concerned. “Well, he’s 32,” she said, slightly embarrassed.

A generation ago, mothers gave up careers because there was barely a support system in the cities (unless you had your own mother — like I said, it never stops). We turned our children into projects. There were always “teachable moments” (What does the cat say? How many balls of rice do you see on the plate? And so on). There was the delving into the seven intelligences, and tennis for hand-eye coordination. We made our children our jobs, seldom listening or just enjoying their company, but always “exposing them to the ‘right’ things”.

We covered up the tracks of the sacrificing mother of a few generations ago, saying we would never be her, but we also built the road for a new kind of mother who had the pressure of knowing her son’s girlfriends and sacrificing the last slice of pizza, both at the same time. She also knew where to take her child for art class, swimming lessons, and ballet.

Somehow, we’ve never been able to get this motherhood stuff right, and that’s probably because we’re human. Do mothers eat Nutella secretly when their kids are asleep? Of course. Do they blow their noses on their nighties? Absolutely. Do they get angry unnecessarily when they’re PMS-ing. Yes. And redo last night’s rotis for tiffin because it’s too much of a hassle to make new ones? And have dreams for themselves? And sex? Do they love people other than their children? Yes, yes, yes.

Perhaps we should stop cutting ourselves out from cardboard and let our children see us in 3D — all the flaws and failings, the odd edges, the mistakes from our own youth. Then perhaps, we will stop saying trite things on Mother’s Day. And maybe, we’ll actually be able to have a relationship with our kids.