The Push: Mother. Daughter. Angel. Monster?

One of the novel’s earliest and most important quotes is, “We all expect to have, and to marry, and to be, good mothers” (7). It’s worth pondering where these expectations come from. To some extent, motherhood is a biological and evolutionary imperative, as newborns across the animal kingdom cannot survive without a mother’s support. Humans, however, with their complex brains and complex societies, cannot divorce this imperative from the social conditioning they receive from television, movies, commercials, and their own parents. If a mother does not express love for her child in ways that are familiar or expected, many assume that something is wrong with the mother. These assumptions are even more pronounced when a child is accused of antisocial or criminal behavior. The phrase “His mother didn’t love him or her” is pervasive in discussions of serial killers and child murderers, as if a mother is to blame for the sins of her child. The Push examines the extent to which mothers have internalized this messaging during the scene at the support group for parents of individuals convicted of crimes. One mother bemoans looks she gets from the prison guards and her lawyer “like I’m the one who did something wrong. But I didn’t. We didn’t do anything wrong” (161)—to which another mother replies, “Didn’t we?”

These attitudes, however, downplay the role of fathers and the expectations of a patriarchal society in perpetuating childhood trauma. This is abundantly evident in Blythe’s family history. For example, if an “original sin” kickstarted her family’s cycle of trauma, it’s when Etta’s father forces her and her husband Louis to stay on the family farm rather than allowing Louis to continue his medical studies. This leads to Louis’s gruesome death, an extraordinarily traumatic moment for Etta with effects that linger for the rest of her life. In a move that reflects how poorly doctors dealt with psychological trauma in mid-century America—particularly women’s trauma—Etta is prescribed powerful sedatives, which leave her in a drugged haze for Cecilia’s early infancy, depriving the child of much love during her formative months and years. Etta’s struggles with addiction continue for years, and the novel strongly implies that addiction was a major factor in her abusive, neglectful treatment of her daughter.

Cecilia too falls victim to patriarchal expectations, and Blythe pays the price for it. After becoming pregnant, Cecilia is steadfast in her refusal to give birth to the child. She is an aspiring poet who only months earlier arrived in the city, and the last thing she wants is a child. Seb, however, is equally steadfast in his refusal to help her pay for an abortion. No ideological or religious motivation for his refusal is apparent; rather, Seb knows that a child will bind them together, and thus his refusal is an exercise in control. This does not exonerate Cecilia for her neglect, mistreatment, and eventual abandonment of Blythe. It does, however, complicate the narrative Blythe has in her mind of an unforgivable mother who shoulders all the blame for her daughter’s unhappy childhood.

Compared to Etta’s father or Seb, Fox exerts a softer, more passive form of patriarchal control. He is habitually dismissive of Blythe’s insistence that she cannot handle what’s expected of her as a mother. Along with Helen, he won’t allow the night nurse to stay more than a month even though she’s a savior for Blythe’s mental health. Blythe must practically beg him to send Violet to daycare. Fox had a dramatically different kind of mother than Blythe is prepared to be, and he refuses to open his mind to other ways to be a good mother. As a result of these conflicts, Blythe feels inadequate simply because she cannot live up to Fox’s expectations, leaving her alienated from both her husband and her daughter.