If you are a mother who ventures online to read or talk with other mothers about mothering, you know that the “mommy wars” of the 1990s over that perennial American question—what makes a good mother?—are presently threatening to make a comeback. What most people today, including most mothers engaged in this discourse, may not quite recognize is that there are not really two “sides” in this discussion, but four. 

In this essay, I will first lay out these distinct orientations to maternity. Then, I will attempt to convince you to join me in embodying the only one where I contend that a posture of humility before God meets true stewardship of His creation. 

Two brief caveats before I go any further: Yes, it’s true that many mothers do not, in practice, slot neatly into one of the maternal orientations I’m about to illuminate. But our discourse about motherhood, and by extension most individual mothers’ ideas about maternity, very much do. People may practice differently than they preach, but mistaken preaching predicated on incorrect or underbaked beliefs still does plenty of damage—especially in this era when becoming a mother at all is no longer women’s default position (more on this later).  And yes, it’s also true that I am oversimplifying somewhat by making the distinctions this stark; within each orientation, there are probably two or three subsets of ideas. But nonetheless, I think that the broad categories stand, and that they are instructive. 

The Four Maternal Types

Take a look at this Punnett square. Along the X axis is the distinction between motherhood as a vocation and motherhood as a lifestyle choice. For those who view motherhood vocationally, children are a positive good that one receives from God in gratitude and gives to the world in generosity. From this perspective, married motherhood is not just another morally neutral way to live but the best and most godly way to live; mothers are “breeding immortal beings.” Obviously, this perspective on motherhood is inextricable from some measure of religiosity and/or traditionalism. 

For those who see motherhood as a lifestyle choice, by contrast, children are highly valued commodities. We hear a lot of this rhetoric among advocates for access to reproductive technologies like surrogacy and IVF: “You deserve to be a mother.”  Motherhood as a consumption decision to which you should get access if you want it—like a luxury car, but even more expensive—is the backbone of mainstream, liberal feminism. It is also the default position in our culture, including among many who do not profess feminism. 

Meanwhile, along the Y axis is the disagreement over whether maternal presence is a transcendent good that should ideally be maximized or an instrumental good that should ideally be optimized. Regardless of what they actually do in practice, those who see the maternal relationship as a transcendent end in itself during the child-rearing years tend to believe that all children would benefit from stay-at-home mothers, from breastfeeding, from a screen-free existence, and from gentle(r) and more emotionally focused parenting. From this perspective, maternal attention is, prima facie, a good that we ought to maximize. These mothers often prefer individuating academics and extracurriculars, and tend to be wary of institutions that mandate behavioral conformity, especially when children are young. Those who are religious and/or traditionalist often believe in homeschool. Among the less religious and the secular, IEPs are common. 

Meanwhile, those who see the maternal relationship as instrumental during the child-rearing years tend not to be as unified in their views on the kinds of early parenting decisions that consume those interested in maximizing maternal presence. Whether by necessity or by choice, these mothers see their own physical and emotional engagement with their children not as an end in itself but as a means to the end of producing moral, independent adults. In that framework, all secondary decisions about maternal presence (let’s not make it into a reduction to absurdity, i.e., why not just abandon your kid, then?) are about an optimizing function, not a maximizing one. As a result, this orientation is inherently and deeply pluralistic. To this way of thinking, it is actually impossible to know whether a given mother should breastfeed, use daycare, take that job that involves travel, or quit her job to stay home unless one undertakes the relevant discernment inclusive of all the myriad particulars, including unknown variables and opportunity costs: maternal personality, strengths and weaknesses; child personality, strengths and weaknesses; household contributions and needs; options for care of what quality or lack thereof; and more. 

Thus, we arrive at four maternal types. Those who view motherhood as vocational and maternal presence as transcendent (type 1) are associated with antifeminism, with tradwifery, and with the disposition of universalizing certainty about what is best for women, for children, and for families. Those who view motherhood as a lifestyle choice and maternal presence as transcendent (type 2) are associated with “normie” mainstream feminism—and its rife illogic (it is unclear why the children one has, allegedly for no transcendent reason, would require one’s transcendent maternal presence). And those who view motherhood as a lifestyle choice and maternal presence as instrumental (type 4) conjure a more radical (and more mature, logically consistent, and self-aware), throwback kind of feminism. 

The old mommy wars of the 1990s, mostly focused on work and daycare, amounted to an unproductive feud between maternal type 1 and maternal type 4, in which the latter denigrated the former as regressive and oppressed while the former smeared the latter as not really caring about their children. Really, though, these groups were talking past each other. Type 4 was attacking type 1 along the Y axis and focused on maternal presence: it’s my own choice how I raise my children, and staying home with yours doesn’t make you a better mother. And type 1 was attacking type 4 along the X axis and talking about maternal vocation: I prioritize my children and you prioritize your career. 

As a result of this confounded non-conversation, we wound up, by the early 2000s, with an untenable default position for American maternity: maternal type 2, in which having children is a morally neutral lifestyle choice and nothing more (you do you!) but at the same time maximizing maternal presence for any children you do choose to have—after all, you chose to have children, so why would you do a lousy job of it?—is absolutely nonnegotiable. Formula is bad, sleep training will create insecure attachment, authoritative parenting (otherwise known as, um, parenting) is abusive, and so on. As the culture’s conception of what constitutes a decent mother got more and more demanding, we simultaneously began to offer less and less in the way of universal acclaim for being a mother at all. And now we wonder: Why are women foregoing motherhood altogether?

Maternal type 3 is the way forward. Not only does it actually have the virtue of being best for children and mothers alike (more on this to come), but it also allows for a version of motherhood that is in fact profoundly traditionalist (it’s God and family centered and militates toward more children) and properly feminist (it recognizes that women are not a monolith and that there is intragroup variance among our gifts and challenges) at the same time.  

Motherhood as an Instrumental Vocation

I am 37 years old with four children ages 10, 8, 4, and 1. Until my firstborn was three and my second born was 18 months, I worked full-time outside the home in the most predictable and stable higher education job I could find. After that, until my third born was 18 months, I worked full-time from home in a job that was less predictable but more flexible. Since then, I have been working part-time from home. I sent my babies to part-time daycare beginning at 15, 6, 18, and 11 months, respectively, and the older three to full-time preschool at 4, 3, and (what will be) 5. My oldest two did a day or two a week in after care; my younger two have done none. They all drank formula and went through sleep training. The older three were all reading well by age four because I pushed them; the oldest two could not tie their shoes until an embarrassingly advanced age because I didn’t. During the school year, I read aloud from good books over breakfast and facilitate the memorization of poems and speeches on drives to school. I teach extra history at home but I don’t get involved in math or science unless there’s a reason. We allow no nonacademic use of personal screens but enjoy plenty of family movie nights and watch lots of professional sports. My husband and I are strict, traditional parents. We encourage our kids (all boys) to be active and busy—cross country, basketball, baseball, track, swimming, cub scouts, music lessons—but we don’t allow travel sports because we also prize family time and regular chores. 

Alongside my husband, I have put a lot of thought into each of these decisions. With no illusions about the transcendent value of my own maternal presence to guide me, I have relied on the unique capacity for complex discernment that God gave we human beings. 

But here’s the key: I actually have no idea whether what I have done or what I will do is or will be best for my kids. I recognize the value of my own maternal being as circumstantial and situational in the broader project of stewarding my children to virtuous adulthood. As such, I recognize that I cannot know the counterfactual and thus will, inevitably, make what are by definition sub-optimal decisions without ever even being aware of it. After all, everything has an opportunity cost. Not just in contrast to child-rearing, but within its sacred realm. 

I am structured, affectionate, responsible, and good at being tired and busy; I deftly embody parental discipline. My husband and I judge that this makes me a good fit to be home with our boys more rather than less. I am also impatient, controlling, stubborn, and terrible at arts and crafts. We judge that this makes outsourcing infant feeding to Similac and finger painting to daycare (and to my own, very artistic, mother) an optimal choice—not so that I could be less present with my children per se, but so that I could be more present with them in the ways that we believe serve them best. 

Crucially, I don’t know whether we’re right about any of the decisions we’ve made. My sons might be better off had they spent less time in daycare and more time with me—or, equally possibly, vice versa. If I were a different mother or if they were different kids (if some of them, hard to imagine, were girls!) the multivariate calculus would all have been entirely different, and there is no guarantee that I would have realized that. In short, I do not know what is optimal; I can only optimize to the best of my ability. But I do know that there exist many less high energy, less authoritative women whose four energetic sons, if they had them, would without a doubt be better off in full-time, high-quality daycare than at home with their mothers. Meanwhile, my sons might indeed be better off had I persisted in breastfeeding them; I can’t know. And someone else’s might be better off if she hadn’t; she can’t know, either. Because, again, everything has an opportunity cost; and we do not get to see the counterfactuals.  

This recognition fosters humility. So, consider this a less than humble plea to sit out the forthcoming mommy wars with me. 

God gave us reason so that we could use it to steward our children as best we can to and for Him—not so that we could subsume it under an ideological slide into either relativistic individualism or monistic maternal idolatry. 

Elizabeth Grace Matthew writes about education, politics, religion, and culture at her Substack, What Are Grown-Ups For? Her work has appeared in a number of publications including USA Today, The Hill, Law and Liberty, America Magazine, Fairer Disputations, and Public Discourse. Matthew holds a bachelor’s in English from the University of Pennsylvania, a master’s in English from Penn State, and a doctorate in Education from St. Joseph’s University. Before turning to writing full-time, she spent over a decade as a university professor and administrator.