- Feeling hot, Hot, HOT -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Taking Stock -- Regina Walker
- Bound by Passion -- Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
- Insecurities -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Activist Heart: Anne Feeney -- Elizabeth Ross
- Taking the Purple Cow to Mothersville -- Stacey Greenberg
- A Working Mother -- Sandra Giordano
- My Pequeno Camino -- Robyn DeSantis Ringler
- Mom Like Me? -- Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch
- Tricks to Writing A Novel -- Alina Adams
- Tao of Kanga -- Shawna Goodrich
Showing posts with label July 2004. Show all posts
Showing posts with label July 2004. Show all posts
JULY 2004
The MAMAS CALIENTE Issue:
Feeling hot, Hot, HOT
I have to admit that I'm not feeling too hot right about now. But I also have to admit that I've never really considered myself hot. I'm too short at 5 feet and lack sufficient curves to be considered a hottie. Not that I'm completely ugly -- it's just that us petite girls without perfect skin or ample bosoms tend to be seen as "cute" or "nice looking", but never really hot.Sure, I've worn my share of bikinis, tank dresses, and short skirts back when I was younger. And I can even still manage to put on a two-piece bathing suit today, but I'm not what you consider sexy. And I have gotten through most of my life without needing or having to be sexy. "It is what it is," is a favorite expression of one of my friends. And most of us know what IT is we have or don't have by the time we reach our mid-thirties.
In all of my years, I can actually remember only half a dozen times in which I may have been momentarily mistaken for hot. One time in college after sunning myself all day, I went out to a bar dressed in an orange tank dress. My skin was deep tan with a new layer of red on top, and a guy came up to me and said, "My friend thinks you're really hot, and he wants to buy you a drink." I smiled, and thanked him, but told him I was taken (I had to have been since I was dating my husband since before it was legal for me to drink in a bar). Maybe this happened or still happens to some of you on a regular basis, but it never happened to me. In fact, even though I did look good, an insecure part of me thought the guy was goofing on me.
Another time, oh about twelve years ago, I was at a conference with work and had spent the day by the pool, again sunning myself. I dressed to go out for dinner in a nice pair of cream slacks with a black fitted jacket. Again, I was deeply tanned with a bright reddish glow on my face. My boss, a woman and the president of the small non-profit company where I worked, actually did a doubletake when I walked into the room. Her eyes grew large, and she said, "Wow, you look amazing." Knowing me, I probably first looked behind me to see who she was talking to before I accepted the fact that I did look good and could accept her compliment.
There was another time, when I was married and very pregnant, that someone flirted with me unexpectedly. It was July 4th, and my husband and friends had been outside sitting in the sun all day at Monmouth Park, a racetrack. Afterwards, we went for dinner outside along the Navesink River. As we were leaving, my husband jumped in a car with a friend in order to help him find his way back to our place. I was driving out of the parking lot, alone in my car, with my sunglasses on just as a good-looking man in a convertible was pulling into the restaurant's parking lot. He stopped and smiled at me, and asked, "Is this place any good?" "Uh, yes," I answered. "Very." He continued to smile and I suddenly recognized that he was flirting. I looked down inside the car at my big old pregnant belly resting on the steering wheel, and couldn't help but laugh. "Enjoy," I said, as I pulled out into the highway.
If you haven't figured it out by now, each and everytime in which somebody thought I looked hot, followed a day in the sun tanning myself. I figured that out too which is why last week, as I was getting ready for a friend's wedding, I suddenly and frantically wanted a deep dark tan. It didn't help that I also just read in one of those women's magazines that having a tan makes one appear thinner. Since I had lost ten pounds in time for the wedding, shrinking myself from a size 12 to a size 6 in just four weeks, I suddenly wanted to go the distance. And I wanted to look good, or at least better than usual, and not so much like a mom.
So, I checked the local tanning salon to see if they could give me a "Britney Spears" spray-on tan, but they couldn't. I passed on the old-fashioned tanning beds as I'm too afraid to expose my skin to actual UVA and UVB's. And unfortunately, the days of barbecuing myself in the midday sun are a thing of the past. Even if I could find the time to laze around the pool, I no longer have the desire to actually burn. You see, in my late twenties, I suddenly discovered tiny wrinkles by my eyes and decided that premature aging of the skin was not something I needed to assist. Also, I'm a little afraid of skin cancer, seeing as I spent most of my childhood summer burning at the beach. And after spending a good part of my maternal life slapping sunscreen on my kids, I'd just rather not go back to slapping baby oil on my skin.
Needless to say, I didn't find a salon with a spray-on tan, so I settled for an over-the-counter bronzer and tanning spray. But I was afraid to use too much of these products because I wanted the tan to look natural and not orange or streaky. So I played it safe, and applied just a little faux tanning, mixing it with my skin tone, which was already slightly and naturally tanned skin from spending a couple of weeks outside in the pool with full SPF protection.
Which brings us back to the wedding. Even with my bronzer and my size 6 dress, I didn't feel hot. You see, our friend, the groom, was marrying a lovely woman who happens to be ten years younger than all of us. Many of her friends were young, single, tall, well-endowed, blonde, and bubbly. Meanwhile, the groom's friends showed up with multiple kids in tow; most of us married for a decade or more to the same spouse. We were also all jetlagged, having flown into town from across the country, while most of the bride's friends were local and had more energy than us to begin with. The younger guests imbibed quickly and danced provocatively and got a little crazy, as young people are apt to do at wedding celebrations. And I suddenly saw myself on the outside, looking in. And I realized that I would never be inside that circle again. I was too self-conscious, too aware, and too mature to let the excitement and heat of the moment carry me away or melt my inhibitions.
And the only heat I was feeling that night was from sweating as I hoisted my five-year-old son around the dance floor to several different fast songs. My husband happened by just as the deejay began playing our wedding song, Elvis' "Falling In Love With You," and we had our slow dance. But as we tried to enjoy our one dance together, our kids continued to pull on us, complaining about the "boring, old song." They wanted to dance wildly to rock-and-roll, and had no patience for such adult music.
To his credit, my husband told me a couple of times that I looked really good and that he really liked my dress. And as all us wives know, it's a good man and a great husband who can pretend he isn't interested in sweet young hotties, especially when he is virtually surrounded by them. Yeah, there are some advantages to being older and wiser and married. One of the greatest advantages being that you always know who you're going home with so you don't really have to spend a lot of time or energy trying to draw outrageous attention to yourself. You also don't need to be the hottest person in the room, or turn all heads, when you already have the eyes and heart of the one person who matters most to you.
Besides, I never turned heads before, and I don't expect I'll get any hotter as I age. But hey, you never know. If I continue to protect my skin from the sun, I just might be the hottest granny in the nursing home.
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Copyright 2004 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (7), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (2). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama. You can read her daily blog, MOM & Pop Culture.
Taking Stock
I have been taking stock a lot lately. Maybe it is my age or maybe it is the time in my life. Maybe it is because it is spring and turning 40 in spring has been a difficult adjustment for me.I have been feeling a great sadness and loss for parts of me that I have not realized and disappointed for some of what I have become.
I lost my best friend to cancer about two years ago. Though I have never been under the assumption I was immortal, I thought maybe she was. Or should have been.
I lost another friend recently, not to death, but to poor judgement and terminal humanness: both hers and mine. I am coming to accept that many things lost cannot be regained and things done cannot be undone regardless of how hard I wish they could. My desire to change the past is shifting into a drive to create a future. One in which I can be who I really am and do what it is I need to do. Though I continue to struggle to know what that is.
I am mourning a past that is long gone but completely alive. Grieving what was once ago and far away but feels as though it lives and breathes within me daily. And I am learning that it does not only live within me, it is part of me. My experiences are intractable from my being and that is, I guess, as it should be. The pain and the fear alongside the joy and achievement. Never one without the other.
What does this have to do with being a mother? I have sought many labels in my life: Wife, Mother, Social Worker, and Friend. These identities I wear with complete authenticity at certain times. At other times I feel like a fraud. They are who I have chosen to be but I don’t know if I am really they. They are what I now must do but I question if I am them.
“Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It is what I have never seen before that I recognize." That quote from Diane Arbus was the theme to a photo exhibit I did in college and it has remained with me since. The bizarre and unknown resonate for me in a way the familiar and expected never can. There is no such thing as being prepared.
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Copyright 2004 Regina Walker
Since March 2003, Regina Walker has been a monthly contributing writer to The Philosophical Mother magazine. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, widdershins, The Future Generation, Motherevolution, Motherload, Commie Mommie, Community Mother Magazine, and the online magazine www.stickyourneckout.com. Her work will be featured in an upcoming issues of Atheist Bear and Motherload. She is the author of the "Clinical Viewpoint" column in the Substance Abuse Letter published by Pace Publications. Regina received her B.A. from Bennington College and her MSW from Fordham University. She is a social worker and addiction treatment specialist in NYC. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.
Bound by Passion
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“Have you decided? I need to give them an answer; would you prefer a guy or girl?”
I watched my husband tap the brochure pinned to the already jam-packed bulletin board. I felt my cheeks flush and the tiniest rush of thrill ran through me as I replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never done this sort of thing. Not that I don’t want to do it. I’ve read about it and how once you’ve tried, you’re hooked. After all, a lot of married couples do it! And the brochure says that they’re very discreet about it. So, um, if I’m finally going to do it, I want to be sure I do it right.”
He gives me a naughty smile and reacts to my rather unexpected moment of embarrassment cheerfully with, “Well, at least you get a choice. I don’t. Mine will be female.”
Looking back at it now, anyone walking into our conversation over breakfast a few weeks ago might have gotten the impression that we were about to enter into the world of swinging couples - a logical assumption judging by the flavor of the conversation. My husband and I will be married 14 years next month. We have four young children and we both have reached our forties. I mean, let’s face it - how long can passion last? But we weren’t looking for a coven of covertly consensual cunnilinguists, or a mass of married meandering mid-lifers. We were going to experience our first full body message -- together.
I have always been a passionate person by nature. I always made time for art, music, writing, traveling and romance in every aspect of my life. Of course my life usually dictated the focus in which my passions would run. Once I began having children, they became a large part of that focus, as I to theirs. As my children are getting older, and with each additional birthday candle extinguished, I find that I have also evolved into yet another phase of my life. I see them growing up and requiring less of my attention, and as their individual needs and wants have become very complex, so has my life as a stay-at-home mom. But at day's end and as much as I’ve seemed to have made time for everyone, there sometimes seems as if there is very little of me left for the person who introduced me to true passion – my husband.
Being perceptive, and maybe a little fed up with getting mommy-leftovers again, my husband surprised me for my fortieth birthday and booked a weekend getaway to Cape May, NJ. I stared at the bed and breakfast brochure in shock.
“Just the two of us?”
Yes; he assured me that this trip would be just for the two of us.
“You mean we won’t have to look for the kids’ menu?”
Nope; he also stated that there would be no getting up a dozen times for potty stops or before 6:00 a.m., either. That this was going to be a mini-second honeymoon of sorts. And after ten years of going on kid-friendly overnight excursions only, we were so ready to leave the nest for something a little more intimate. We were going to find passion again – even if it killed us to try and “not talk” about our kids.
“Okay, I’ve decided. I want a male masseuse.” He booked the appointment for the first morning on the Cape, with the idea that all the walking we would be doing – among other things – would result in our muscles screaming in lack of use. The day spa is just a short walk from our room and my husband and I were excited. This was so self-indulgent and so unlike us.
We walked into the reception area and I was immediately assaulted at all senses. The air had a pleasant scent – a mixture of lavender and vanilla with a touch of spiciness, later to be disclosed as cinnamon. The lights were dimmed, but not dark because there seemed to be candles lit on every flat surface. There was music playing infused with the sounds of nature and I couldn’t help but feel relaxed within the first two minutes; fearing I would melt into a pile of goo right there in front of the receptionist. Thankfully, our hostess greeted us quickly and silently directed us back to the changing area where there were two fluffy white robes hanging on brass hooks.
Our hostess finally spoke saying, “Please disrobe, put on your robe."
Responding to sudden attack of nerves, I started to giggle and pointed to the robe saying, “Which robe? Dis robe?" She didn’t seem to understand as she continued in a freaky Stepford Wife sort of way, “…and feel free to pour yourselves a glass of iced-lemon water in the waiting room while you fill out the form of problem areas.”
My form was simple because I just filled in at the top: Basically, everything hurts.
We were then shown to a room with two tables to be used for our side-by-side massage, and a large whirlpool tub in front of a completely mirrored wall. As our hostess was explaining about the allotted tub time to my husband, I was checking out the mirror. Not only was I not so thrilled about seeing myself naked, but I worried that the mirror was two-way and some sex-crazed animal(s) was sitting on the other side, ready to enjoy a full frontal display. Once we were alone, I suggested the same to my husband and he surprised me further as he faced the mirrored wall, stripped off his robe and said, “Sorry guys, but that’s as good as it gets.”
It got better for my husband, as his woman for an hour showed up. She was cute. She was perky. She was a foreign college student. And I wasn’t the least bit jealous. You go boy! If he got her, I just couldn’t wait to see what I got!
I laid there as instructed – face up and in between the sheet and the towel – and waited for my man for an hour. I heard the front door open and my pulse began to race. I imagined Sven. My blond, blue-eyed Swedish masseuse, who’s only job was to make me feel good. I closed my eyes and felt a tiny bead of sweat form on my upper lip in anticipation. I felt his refreshingly clean breath gently blow my bangs aside as he spoke, “Hello, Elizabeth. My name is Andrew.”
I smiled and opened my eyes and it took all my energy not to scream. It turns out that Andrew was about the same age as my father. Andrew wanted me to, “…just lie there and don’t try to help. I want you to let me do everything and for you to veg out.” No problem, dude! I closed my eyes and I imagined Sven.
For once, I won’t go into the intimate details about our weekend, out of respect for our privacy. Suffice it say that our getaway weekend was fabulous. Yes, I am stay-at-home-mom with four children, a substantially large mortgage, living a rather uninteresting life in the suburbs. And I do not have a financially stable career to speak of. But, thankfully, my husband and I were generously reminded that even though I may wear a somewhat shabby and used coat of many colors, it's bound together with lots of passion that needs to be aired out every now and then. . .and this SAHM may just have a few tricks left up her sleeve after all.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Insecurities
It happened again.I just returned from two glorious weeks of loafing on Cape Cod and all my complexes were reactivated because I didn't have an alligator emblem on my shirt.
The town in which we rent a summer cottage has a large proportion of affluent summer residents. Even though I pride myself on not being concerned with appearances, when I return home each summer I feel totally insecure for at least two weeks.
Everyone, from schoolboys who choose from a fleet of boats to sail to the retired executives who drive their Mercedes to pick up the Boston Globe or Wall Street Journal, wears Izod La Coste knit shirts. The alligator snaps at me for two weeks wherever I go and the penguin on my pocket peers back dolefully.
Mothers wealthier than I appear different somehow. They seem impervious to the weather, difficult children, or situations faced by middle-class wives like me. They walk in the same sand and dust that I do, but I swear their feet don't get dirty. When the temperature soars, they don't sweat. They might perspire a little, but they never sweat. And they don't yell at their kids in the supermarket either.
The first day of vacation I stood in the wine and cheese shop deciding whether I should spend an extra $5. on wine. The woman next to me ordered $l00 worth of seafood canapés for a cocktail party. The blonde in the next row at the ball game wears the same wrinkled polo shirt and white shorts that I do, but there's a difference. She looks athletic; I look sloppy. Even their laundry has class. I sit bedraggled in the laundromat in my last set of clean clothes and watch enviously as the unwilted sophisticate next to me tosses her nautical designer sheets into the dryer.
We're proud of our 14-foot boat we brought with us this year so we could do some fishing and putt proudly toward Nantucket Sound. But mostly we stay busy dodging the wakes from a parade of Boston Whalers headed for deep-water fishing. The Bud Lite and ham sandwiches in our cooler provide a sad contrast to the gourmet lunches I'm sure are neatly packed aboard their boats in beautiful and expensive picnic baskets.
The glowing matron next to me in the supermarket line makes me feel like throwing a beach blanket over my head. Dressed in immaculate tennis togs, she wears an expensive sweater knotted carefully around her neck, casually perfect. I'm on my way home from clamming clad in faded shorts and a Red Sox tee shirt with a fishy smelling sweatshirt tied around my waist. The woman in the gift shop makes out a check for $75 for a shimmering mobile of glass starfish as I grab my son's arm muttering, "I'll kill you if you touch anything."
What am I doing here? All the women in this town seem to have curly hair, beautiful skin, and lovely figures. It's like a movie. The damp wind brings a glow to their tanned faces. I get pale and cold and the ever-multiplying gray in my hair sticks up like Brillo. Is this self-abuse worth it?
You bet. To me, this town of sun, sand, and sea is my idea of heaven. I'll gladly unpack my imagined (?) inadequacies for another two weeks to be able to enjoy it again next summer.
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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu/Originally written in the summer, 1985.
Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in the New York Times, Catholic Digest, The National Enquirer, Cape Women Magazine and in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies. Gerry has recently published a collection of her essays, Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl, which is available from iUniverse, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com and at your local bookstore. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.
Activist Heart: Anne Feeney
Being American these days while conversing with the world via this wonderful electronic web can be a somewhat depressing concept. It is becoming more common for individuals of other nations to look at us with disdain for the actions of our government overseas, and even in our own backyard. I continually fall back on the statement that the people do not always agree with what our government does, but that often falls on deaf ears, since our media doesn’t give the spotlight to those in dissent as it did during the Vietnam conflict. I have been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to interview one of those individuals that the media doesn’t cover often, Anne Feeney, an activist and singer/songwriter from Pennsylvania.
I asked Anne about the nature of today’s activists versus those of the Vietnam Era. Feeney stated:
“I would say that today's activists are more savvy and more dedicated, and quite possibly more numerous. The overwhelming majority of protesters in the 60's were pretty naive -- and I was certainly one of them – believing that if we could just stop the war and enforce Civil Rights laws that we would have a just society. There was a smaller utopian group who wanted to remake society in a non-capitalist model, and, just as the right-wingers suggested, we were 'infiltrated' by a few outspoken Marxists, but most of us were too young to spend a lot of time on theory, and operated on a very visceral sense of peace and justice. The huge difference between then and now was the way we were treated.”
She continues, “At the risk of seeming cynical, in retrospect I think it may have been because we were a key demographic group with a relatively huge disposable income. Today's activists seem to be much more analytical ... they ‘have’ connected the dots ... corporate globalization, developing world suffering, World Bank 'restructuring' and homeland security all benefit the same small group. The reason I think today's activists seem to be less visible is because major media is not going to create a 'summer of love' and make media darlings out of a group that essentially buys ‘nothing’.”
Known for her anthem, Have You Been To Jail For Justice, Feeney is the personification of the artist in action. She sings of the plight of the working man, woman, and peace-loving Americans, standing firmly on her convictions, including risking arrest for her beliefs.
“The first time I was arrested was at the Republican National Convention in Miami Beach in 1972. I was with a group of Zippies (the successors-in-interest to the Yippies) outside the convention center. We were verbally harassing delegates as they entered. Miami/Dade police told us we had 15 minutes to disperse or we would all be arrested. They immediately encircled us and arrested us all. Up until that moment, I believed the police would not give a 15-minute warning and not honor that. We were rounded up into paddy wagons and taken to the Dade County lockup. I was released later that evening on my own recognizance and panhandled the bail for the 11 other Pittsburgh folks who had traveled there with me. All the Miami charges were eventually dismissed. We were just locked up so that the delegates could come and go without seeing us.
The next time I was arrested was in 1994 at the Staley strike in Decatur, IL. In the meantime I had received a lot of training in non-violent resistance and civil disobedience, and had been to hundreds of demonstrations. I had been support for other groups doing CD. Since I usually had my PA and guitar at these kinds of actions I was never a likely candidate for arrest... I had too many other responsibilities. That day in Decatur I was just so fed up that I handed my guitar to some Teamsters and just went and laid down in an intersection. That struggle was very frustrating, and ended badly.”
In spite of these negative experiences with authority figures during her years of participation in protests, Feeney still looks forward with hope for a peaceful future.
“I was shocked the first time I witnessed lies and violence from the police. But the more I read about our past the more I understand that it's actually a fixture of US History. Over a lifetime of activism I've seen the scenario re-enacted so many times that I now take it as a given that effective expression of our constitutional rights will be met by brute force and martial law. The "Miami model" promulgated during the FTAA [Free Trade Area of the Americas] in November of 2003 took this military response to new levels of repression. The scenes from Abu Grhaib are logical extensions of the dehumanizing of 'the enemy’ that has been going on since September 11, 2001. Thanks to this digital age ordinary people cannot escape witnessing this brutality, and they don't have to look hard to find evidence of the resistance. The two superpowers in the world today are the US, and world opinion.
The US is adding notches to its belt temporarily, but the world's opinion of us is plummeting. People are increasingly sickened by this violence and searching for a better way. I'm convinced that these vicious displays of violence against non-violent resistance are what make empires collapse.”
Besides being an activist, Feeney is also a mother who considers it her responsibility to hand down her own values to her children.
“I have always believed that civil disobedience and other acts of non-violent resistance are powerful and important tactics, and taught that to my children.” Her daughter, Amy, who recently traveled and performed with Feeney, has definitely learned this message. “My daughter and her friend Llewellyn Gannon came to DC from Portland to sing with me at the March for Women's Lives. We enjoy singing together, but seldom perform together in front of audiences. That was definitely a mother/daughter type occasion, and I was thrilled to be able to provide an opportunity like that for Amy and Llewellyn.”
Anne Feeney exemplifies the ideal of womanhood, clearly stating her views and purpose in all she does. In her words
“I'm a feminist environmentalist anti-racist peacenik socialist anarchist advocate for working people. I've always worked hard for the full panoply of women's rights... I think controlling our fertility is the bottom line, but access to health care, freedom from violence, respect, pay equity, equal opportunity... there's no issue I avoid.”
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For more information go to annefeeney.com
Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Ross
Elizabeth Ross is a 32-year-old mother of four, freelance writer and editor from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Imperfect Parent, MomsVoice, and is slated to appear in Momentum, the magazine of the National Catholic Educational Association. She is the publisher of River Walk Journal, a bi-monthly online literary journal which is an expansion of her online editing group.
Taking the Purple Cow to Mothersville
A Mother with a Fertile Mind Finds a Creative OutletI always fancied myself a writer, but “being a writer” was something that I might one day become, not something I already was. I didn’t write for the high school paper or major in English at University. I minored in “Creative Writing” and had fun filling a few semesters with tales of lesbians who drank Wild Turkey straight from the bottle and a pizza guy who had a love affair with his tapeworm. I liked shocking my classmates and emulated Tom Robbins as best I could.
As I traveled to Israel and Africa, I kept detailed journals of my adventures that uninterestingly dwelled on boys who were cute, but didn’t love me. At my first ever office job, I used the computer to construct a short-lived newsletter I unoriginally dubbed, Stacey’s So Called Life, that glamorized the drunken sprees and gossip-worthy events of my friends and I.
I specialized in creating drama in my rather dull existence, rather than creating art. I engaged in flaming e-mail wars with my best friend. I dabbled in “Letters to the Editor” and angry rants to corporate heads. I put a lot of energy into meddling in the affairs of others and arguing about religion and other highly sensitive topics while intoxicated. Although I had managed to marry the man of my dreams, buy a house, and live a rather privileged existence, I didn’t do anything I felt was worth writing about. I tried writing about my experiences in the Peace Corps, but felt they lacked any real appeal to anyone other than my mom. I had a secret desire to write for the local independent paper, but they weren’t interested in hiring me, and in retrospect, I can’t blame them.
A lack of formal training kept me from any “real” writing jobs, but my writing skills helped me earn a masters degree in Urban Anthropology, and later land a rather high paying job at the local utility company doing community relations. I got involved in my neighborhood association and other local groups, such as Park Friends and soon began to feel like a contributing member of society. A “grown up.” All of my friends began getting pregnant and starting families and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I did the same. Dinner conversations turned to circumcision debates and homebirth replaced religion as the hot topic to discuss over drinks.
My best friend and partner in crime told me she was pregnant on Valentine’s Day 2001. I resisted as long as I could, but not having her to go out with made it much less appealing. By Labor Day, I was pregnant too. I enjoyed being pregnant and looked forward to becoming a mother. I didn’t quite know what to expect and spent every evening with my nose buried in pregnancy books. Once I read enough of those, I delved into breastfeeding and attachment parenting books. I scoured the Internet and generally tried to soak up as much information as I could. I was surprised by how cool I thought motherhood was going to be and felt like a bit of an ass for always assuming people who got pregnant somehow deserved pity, as if getting pregnant were always by mistake. I stepped outside of my high school health class mentality and saw the world in a whole new light.
My thirty-six hour homebirth resulted in one amazing little boy, and one mother. As much as my son consumes me, I am equally consumed by my role as a mother.
There is something about becoming a mother that simultaneously makes me feel special, one of a kind, yet part of a huge network of women reaching back to the beginning of time. I can only liken it to the feeling I once shared among fellow smokers; An instant recognition that I was in a club of sorts, but that I smoked my own brand of cigarettes. Motherhood gave me a sense of purpose and I jumped in with both feet. Nursing my son, rather than a hangover, made all the difference in my life. I no longer needed to create fiction or unnecessary drama to keep myself busy. While Camel Lights and Vodka Tonics once contributed a major part to my personality, they were easily replaced with cloth diapers and breastmilk.
I also had a handful of friends who were new mothers and who provided a much needed outlet for me. Play dates were the perfect mix of baby time and mama time. I shunned traditional magazines and other news sources in favor of real life experiences. I belonged to several online communities that connected me to likeminded mothers across the country. I had a group of “synchro-mamas” (women with children born at the same time as my own) who helped me get through the bumps in the road and who shared in my joy and accomplishments. I quickly got into a routine and much to my surprise, really enjoyed my stint as a stay at home mom. I loved the freedom I had. My husband and I drove across country with our two-month-old son and spent four weeks visiting friends and family. It was my best summer ever and I didn’t want it to end.
I missed my paycheck, but not my career. I wasn’t interested in climbing the corporate ladder anymore. I found the minutia of mothering to be quite stimulating and important. Beyond the political realm of natural parenting and all that it entails, I was enthralled by my son’s every move. Scheduling naps were much more challenging than scheduling conferences. And the mere thought of returning to a 9-to-5 job and putting my son in daycare tore me apart. Unfortunately, my husband and I had come to rely on my paychecks and couldn’t see how we could cover our student loans, car payment, mortgage, and other expenses on my husband’s income as an archaeologist. My husband could stay home with our son, but that wouldn’t get me out of the grind.
I was in love with mothering and I needed to find a way to combine it with working in a creative way; A way that didn’t necessarily separate the two. My best friend and I hatched a plan. We would start our own business and bring our kids to work with us! Our business would cater to mothers and children, and be the first step on the long road of changing the face of what a working mother looks like. We named our business The Purple Cow: A Midtown Mootique, and planned to sell ice cream, used clothing, and mama-made crafts in a child-friendly atmosphere stocked with toys, comfortable sofas, and lots and lots of alternative parenting resources. We met in the afternoons while our kids napped or played and managed to write a business proposal. We even ordered cow suits and did a photo shoot with our kids to woo potential investors. We weren’t able to get everything in order by the time my maternity leave ended, but the thought of starting The Purple Cow gave me the strength I needed to return to the office. I told myself it was only temporary.
Returning to work was a nightmare. People asked how I was doing and how my baby was, but they didn’t really want to know. My boss, who had once been my mentor and role model was now the enemy. My four month absence had left her overwhelmed and I felt a new distance between us. She seemed shocked and surprised by my less than enthusiastic attitude towards returning to work and couldn’t understand why I was tired or why my son was not sleeping through the night. Having earlier endured her dismay at my decision to breastfeed, I cowardly decided against educating her on attachment parenting and co-sleeping.
I felt alone, lost and depressed. My son, however, was fine. Luckily, I found an excellent home-based daycare provider named Katy who loved Satchel almost as much as I did. She held him a lot, rocked him to sleep, and showered him with affection. Everyday at lunch, I went to Katy’s to nurse Satchel, watch him play, and have some much needed conversation. Knowing that he was in a loving environment and was thriving despite my absence, allowed me to hold on when all I wanted to do was let go.
At work, I logged many hours on the phone and Internet in the name of The Purple Cow. I spent all my downtime “hanging out” with my online mama friends. I left early on Thursdays for play dates and scouted out real estate on my way to and from meetings. When weeks turned to months, I realized that starting a business was going to take considerably more time than I had planned on. Just tracking down the Small Business Association (SBA) office was a major feat. Our SBA advisor was either calling us several times a day or she would disappear for weeks. Traditional banks didn’t want anything to do with us, and we had many days when we wondered if we’d ever get to realize our dream of The Purple Cow. Every time we thought we were close, we’d discover something else that needed to be done.
To top things off, my friend and I had both become pregnant in the interim and weren’t sure how two new babies would affect our plans. We alternated between being both thankful and frustrated that the process of getting a loan and starting a business was incredibly slow.
While we were tangled in self-doubt, paperwork, and bureaucracy, a retail store called Mothersville opened up nearby. At first we refused to even go in, convinced it was a feeble attempt to do what we had set out to do. We were insanely jealous and worried that our plans could be seriously affected by Mothersville’s mere existence. Memphis is no Portland or San Francisco. There’s only so much to go around.
We did eventually go in and were blown away by what we found. Mothersville was this mama’s dream come true. There were all kinds of nursing and maternity wear, organic kids clothing, cloth diapers, breast pumps, herbs, and comfortable sofas where women were encouraged to hang out and breastfeed their children. Mothersville also offered classes, like prenatal yoga and natural childbirth education, and was just fabulous.
The biggest surprise was that the owner was a woman we had gone to college with. Kristy was an experienced mother of three who carried her youngest in a sling while the other two played in the store. She was a true inspiration. She let us pick her brain and she and her husband told us everything they knew about starting a business. Whenever I felt down, or trapped by my career, I would e-mail Kristy or go to Mothersville for a pep talk. Just knowing that someone else was doing what I wanted to do gave me hope and got me through the day.
I had a ton of creative energy that needed to be channeled into my daily life, rather than being bottled up waiting for The Purple Cow to open. Sitting in front of a computer forty hours a week thinking about my son, my role as a working mother, and my dreams, inspired me to start writing and provided me with a child-free environment in which to do so. I knew a few women online who did zines, and decided I should start my own. I ordered every mama made zine I could find; joined Mamaphonic.com; solicited my husband and friends to contribute material; wrote my stories during lunch and worked on the layout at night while Satchel was asleep; and put out my first issue in January of 2003.
Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting was a hit. I sent out 200 copies and the feedback was overwhelming. People actually subscribed and I was glad to commit to doing at least four issues. It wasn’t long before I was viewing the world in terms of my zine. Topics would come up and I would think, “Oh I’ve got to write about that,” or “I wonder how I could incorporate this into Fertile Ground?”
After eight months, I have actually gotten to the point where I have to write. I need to write. It’s how I cope. For example, I recently had a miscarriage. It was probably one of the worst things that ever happened to me. What got me through, was writing about every little detail in my zine. Knowing that the audience would likely be other mothers, other women, friends, and family made a big difference. I knew I could write about something painful and exposing and not just put it in my journal, but put it out there. I had the confidence in myself to do that and was a real turning point. Having a zine, a guaranteed outlet for my writing, has also encouraged me to seek out other creative outlets and even broader audiences.
I still don’t know if I am a “real” writer, but I’m getting there. I don’t have an incredible mastery of the English language or an impressive vocabulary. My writing isn’t well planned out or full of literary nuances. I think what makes my writing worth reading is that I take a universally appealing topic - parenting, and insist on telling it like it is. My readers can count on me to tell the whole story, gory details and all. A lot of people might edit the part of their birth story where they poop on the living room floor. Not me. I take pride in the messiness of motherhood. I think my time as a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon, more than anything, prepared me for the fact that raising children is hard work and it isn’t always pretty. I don’t think it serves anyone to gloss over the truth and I’m proud of the mother I’ve become.
It’s been a year since I returned to work and I have found a way to balance my dreams of being a writer and an entrepreneur with my present reality of being my family’s breadwinner. While holding a full time job, I’ve managed to put out three issues of Fertile Ground and am working on my fourth; I’ve rallied 31 other mamas who make zines to collaborate on the “mother of all zines” -- Mamaphiles, which is nothing short of amazing; and I’ve had my writing published in various zines, magazines, and websites.
The Small Business Association, clearly unaware of the impending Mama Revolution, decided that The Purple Cow was too much of a risk and denied giving us a loan, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. My best friend and I decided to partner with Kristy and invest in Mothersville. Now we are all pooling our resources and our ideas to work together to make a real impact on the Memphis mama community. I now have the opportunity to be involved in the decision-making processes and creative outlets of the business while maintaining my steady gig at the utility company. At Mothersville, I’ve already set up a resource center with my vast collection of books, zines, and videos. I held a bellycasting party, and have started working with the Midtown Artist Market to hold regular mama artist exhibitions.
I feel incredibly lucky to have a great family, a good job, a creative outlet, and an investment in my community. Becoming a mother has been the best thing to ever happen to me.
********************************
Copyright 2004 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is the creator of the zine Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis with her husband and two sons. Contact her at staleyg@yahoo.com.
A Working Mother
Defining Who We Are, By What We Do
By Sandra Giordano
We live in a society where careers define who we are.
My husband and I were recently invited to attend a formal dinner affair. This was my night out without the kids in a long time and I welcomed the change. "Tonight, I am looking forward to trading cookies and milk for cocktails and cheese, and to engage in a stimulating intellectual conversation." I thought to myself as I arranged my dress on the bed and searched my closet for suitable shoes.
"Mommy, wear this long pink dress!" chimed Christina as she bounced me back to the present moment while hopping around in a layer of fleece.
"I can't wear that."
"Why not?" she asked sincerely. "It's beautiful and so soft. You'll be comfy Mommy."
"Christina, that's a housecoat. I can't wear that to a dinner party. I'll look silly."
"No, you won't," she insisted.
"Never mind," I responded, not wanting to get into a debate with her then and there regarding the appropriateness of fashions.
"Come on. Sit on Mommy's bed and watch cartoons with Joey," I said as I scooped my little son up and away from the closet floor, which was now littered with a mismatched array of shoes. Closing the door to the closet, I then jumped into the shower and was out in marathon time, only to find Christina and Joey playing tug-o-war with my pantyhose.
"Stop pulling my stockings! They're the only nice pair I have with no runs," I said sternly while prying the stockings from them.
"Who runs Mommy?" asked Christina with innocent curiosity.
"Never mind." I put on my stockings and zipped up my dress holding my breath in the hopes I could suck in a few extra pounds.
Trying to get dressed with two kids all over me was exasperating. I felt like Sisyphus. No sooner did I manage to get halfway done, when one of my children set me back two more steps. As I went to look for my shoes, I turned around to see Joey clomping down the hall like a little pony with my shoes on. I managed to convince Joey to give me back my shoes and finished getting myself together with some sanity still left. Just before leaving, I took a quick look in the mirror "Motherhood makes me look tired," I thought aloud.
"You look nice, Mommy," said Christina who had been watching me.
"Thanks, honey. You be good tonight okay."
"Okay!" She said energetically and then gave me a big hug.
Seeing this, Joey climbed off the bed and came running towards me saying: "Mama- me! me!"
"What is it Joey," I asked.
"Mama hug."
"Of course, Joey," I said as I wrapped my arms around him.
"Mama, luv ya."
"I love you too sweetie. Now both of you let's go to Grandma's"
When we got to the dinner, we were seated with three other couples. Not being the gregarious type, I let someone else lead the conversation. It seemed tonight's focus was on careers.
The man seated to my right was a lawyer. He bragged about a big case he had recently won to another lawyer seated next to him. His wife, who worked for a major marketing firm, was discussing the dilemmas involved in a corporate merger that was expected to occur within her company. She was talking to a very polished and well-dressed woman who appeared to be about my age. I wondered what she did as she hadn't spoken much about herself yet.
An hour into dinner, I had just about had my fill of food and conversation. I was beginning to miss the kids. Observing everyone in conversation, I decided to join in the dialogue. I finally drummed up enough confidence to make small talk with the pretty sophisticated woman. Our conversation began with the basics initially discussing the weather and other trivialities. Soon, I found myself listening to this woman's professional status as a leading lady in an expansive engineering firm. She made it a point to divulge and define how she had managed to break into a field that was noted for being a "man's business." She spoke very articulately and she looked flawless and undaunted; very much like those pretty women in career women's catalogs.
Sitting next to her, I felt a little intimidated and foolish. I suddenly became very conscious of the run in my stocking which seemed to have run down my ankle by now, and my unadorned basic black dress looked so plain next to her satin and sequined two piece silk suit. My dress felt even tighter now and itchy too. I was almost wishing I could be back on the couch snuggled beside my kids in the pink housecoat Christina had recommended I wear. I imagined the kids right about now sitting on the family room sofa watching the Wiggles with our Poochie curled between them sneaking chocolate chip cookie crumbs. And, here I was wearing a dress plastered to my body in a large, cold room.
The stylish career woman went on discussing how busily packed her day usually was, beginning with a mention of her daily half hour traffic-logged commute into the city and ending it with an exaggerated emphasis about how some days she worked for 12 hours straight breaking only for coffee occasionally. I thought about my days. I wondered if she knew anything about working the "24/7 unpaid mother shift," that allowed for only occasional and brief 10-second bathroom breaks. And then, I thought about the half hour it took each morning to convince my kids to turn off the faucet and remove themselves out of the bathroom after they had slurped and sucked down water and toothpaste.
A stifled silence followed as the woman finished speaking. I guess she expected me to continue the conversation, but I didn't have anything to contribute that could match her lucrative lifestyle. Breaking the collecting silence, quite decisively and bluntly she asked me: "So, what do you do?"
I was thinking about Christina and Joey and remembering how I would have been reading our favorite bedtime story Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss right about now.
"What do you do?" She asked me again after I failed to respond within the socially acceptable wait time allotted for a reply.
"Oh, me?" I hesitated a moment before responding. "I'm a mother."
"I beg your pardon," she said looking at me directly. "Do you work?"
"Why, yes of course!" I said with a sense of certainty. And this time I smiled confidently as I looked her squarely in the face and said proudly: " I work full time as a mommy for my children."
**********************************
Copyright 2004 Sandra Giordano
Sandra Giordano holds an MA in Creative Writing. Her work has been published in parenting publications and she is a freelance writer of educational materials. Currently, Sandra continues to work at her most rewarding job which she says is "being a mommy to her children."
By Sandra Giordano
We live in a society where careers define who we are.
My husband and I were recently invited to attend a formal dinner affair. This was my night out without the kids in a long time and I welcomed the change. "Tonight, I am looking forward to trading cookies and milk for cocktails and cheese, and to engage in a stimulating intellectual conversation." I thought to myself as I arranged my dress on the bed and searched my closet for suitable shoes.
"Mommy, wear this long pink dress!" chimed Christina as she bounced me back to the present moment while hopping around in a layer of fleece.
"I can't wear that."
"Why not?" she asked sincerely. "It's beautiful and so soft. You'll be comfy Mommy."
"Christina, that's a housecoat. I can't wear that to a dinner party. I'll look silly."
"No, you won't," she insisted.
"Never mind," I responded, not wanting to get into a debate with her then and there regarding the appropriateness of fashions.
"Come on. Sit on Mommy's bed and watch cartoons with Joey," I said as I scooped my little son up and away from the closet floor, which was now littered with a mismatched array of shoes. Closing the door to the closet, I then jumped into the shower and was out in marathon time, only to find Christina and Joey playing tug-o-war with my pantyhose.
"Stop pulling my stockings! They're the only nice pair I have with no runs," I said sternly while prying the stockings from them.
"Who runs Mommy?" asked Christina with innocent curiosity.
"Never mind." I put on my stockings and zipped up my dress holding my breath in the hopes I could suck in a few extra pounds.
Trying to get dressed with two kids all over me was exasperating. I felt like Sisyphus. No sooner did I manage to get halfway done, when one of my children set me back two more steps. As I went to look for my shoes, I turned around to see Joey clomping down the hall like a little pony with my shoes on. I managed to convince Joey to give me back my shoes and finished getting myself together with some sanity still left. Just before leaving, I took a quick look in the mirror "Motherhood makes me look tired," I thought aloud.
"You look nice, Mommy," said Christina who had been watching me.
"Thanks, honey. You be good tonight okay."
"Okay!" She said energetically and then gave me a big hug.
Seeing this, Joey climbed off the bed and came running towards me saying: "Mama- me! me!"
"What is it Joey," I asked.
"Mama hug."
"Of course, Joey," I said as I wrapped my arms around him.
"Mama, luv ya."
"I love you too sweetie. Now both of you let's go to Grandma's"
When we got to the dinner, we were seated with three other couples. Not being the gregarious type, I let someone else lead the conversation. It seemed tonight's focus was on careers.
The man seated to my right was a lawyer. He bragged about a big case he had recently won to another lawyer seated next to him. His wife, who worked for a major marketing firm, was discussing the dilemmas involved in a corporate merger that was expected to occur within her company. She was talking to a very polished and well-dressed woman who appeared to be about my age. I wondered what she did as she hadn't spoken much about herself yet.
An hour into dinner, I had just about had my fill of food and conversation. I was beginning to miss the kids. Observing everyone in conversation, I decided to join in the dialogue. I finally drummed up enough confidence to make small talk with the pretty sophisticated woman. Our conversation began with the basics initially discussing the weather and other trivialities. Soon, I found myself listening to this woman's professional status as a leading lady in an expansive engineering firm. She made it a point to divulge and define how she had managed to break into a field that was noted for being a "man's business." She spoke very articulately and she looked flawless and undaunted; very much like those pretty women in career women's catalogs.
Sitting next to her, I felt a little intimidated and foolish. I suddenly became very conscious of the run in my stocking which seemed to have run down my ankle by now, and my unadorned basic black dress looked so plain next to her satin and sequined two piece silk suit. My dress felt even tighter now and itchy too. I was almost wishing I could be back on the couch snuggled beside my kids in the pink housecoat Christina had recommended I wear. I imagined the kids right about now sitting on the family room sofa watching the Wiggles with our Poochie curled between them sneaking chocolate chip cookie crumbs. And, here I was wearing a dress plastered to my body in a large, cold room.
The stylish career woman went on discussing how busily packed her day usually was, beginning with a mention of her daily half hour traffic-logged commute into the city and ending it with an exaggerated emphasis about how some days she worked for 12 hours straight breaking only for coffee occasionally. I thought about my days. I wondered if she knew anything about working the "24/7 unpaid mother shift," that allowed for only occasional and brief 10-second bathroom breaks. And then, I thought about the half hour it took each morning to convince my kids to turn off the faucet and remove themselves out of the bathroom after they had slurped and sucked down water and toothpaste.
A stifled silence followed as the woman finished speaking. I guess she expected me to continue the conversation, but I didn't have anything to contribute that could match her lucrative lifestyle. Breaking the collecting silence, quite decisively and bluntly she asked me: "So, what do you do?"
I was thinking about Christina and Joey and remembering how I would have been reading our favorite bedtime story Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss right about now.
"What do you do?" She asked me again after I failed to respond within the socially acceptable wait time allotted for a reply.
"Oh, me?" I hesitated a moment before responding. "I'm a mother."
"I beg your pardon," she said looking at me directly. "Do you work?"
"Why, yes of course!" I said with a sense of certainty. And this time I smiled confidently as I looked her squarely in the face and said proudly: " I work full time as a mommy for my children."
**********************************
Copyright 2004 Sandra Giordano
Sandra Giordano holds an MA in Creative Writing. Her work has been published in parenting publications and she is a freelance writer of educational materials. Currently, Sandra continues to work at her most rewarding job which she says is "being a mommy to her children."
My Pequeno Camino
One Mother Faces Her Fears in an Unforgettable Journey
By Robyn DeSantis Ringler
I never would have gone up in a helicopter if it hadn't been for Shirley MacLaine.
Standing in a small bookshop in the Los Angeles Airport on a stopover to Tucson, I noticed a prominent display of bestsellers stacked in a tall pyramid just inside the shop. At the top stood Shirley MacLaine's book, The Camino.
Having read a couple of MacLaine's earlier spiritual journeys, I had found them charming, if not altogether believable. Imagining that this would be more of the same, I picked it up and examined the front cover.
A woman wearing a suede hiking jacket and sturdy jeans walked determinedly through the tall grass, swaying in the breeze. She bore the burden of a giant backpack and carried a long, curved, birch branch. A wide-brimmed hat was tilted down over her eyes, which studied the path in front of her. Snow-capped mountains and billowy white clouds graced the background.
The picture seemed a little too perfect. Turning the book over, I read the jacket copy.
This is the story of a journey that began with anonymous letters imploring Shirley to make a difficult pilgrimage along the Camino in Spain.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I wondered what the people who wrote the anonymous letters did for a living.
People from St. Francis of Assisi and Charlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have taken the journey, a nearly 500-mile trek across highways and fields, mountains and valleys, cities and towns. Now it would be Shirley's turn!
Ugh. Only Shirley MacLaine would rise to the level of St. Francis of Assisi and Dante and Chaucer to take a 500-mile trek across God knows where.
A woman in her sixth decade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at a rate of twenty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable.
It just figures that Shirley is in her SIXTH decade. Here I am in my forties, afraid to drive from New York to New Jersey. What normal person could possibly make a journey like this?
I put the book down, purposely not replacing it on its pyramid perch. Envious of Shirley's courage, spirituality, freedom, and money, I pouted for the rest of the flight to Arizona, thinking of my own insecurity, lack of spirituality, family responsibilities, and financial needs.
In the Tucson International Airport, my husband went to get the rental car while my daughter and I waited, stopping at a rack of brochures. I took one for the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Saguaro National Park, put one back for the shopping mall in Phoenix.
My hand soon rested on a bright orange and blue pamphlet reading: Grand Canyon Helicopter Flights. A white helicopter with a tail bearing the colors of the rainbow was shown flying through the red rock gorges of the Grand Canyon, amazed tourists peering from the curved windows. As I clutched the brochure, my heart started beating faster.
I have to do this. I need to take that helicopter flight. For an average forty-three-year-old woman from upstate New York, that would be my "pequeno camino" -- my little journey.
Move over, Shirley MacLaine!
Not wanting to take the flight alone, I spent the next two days badgering my family to go up in a helicopter.
"Mom, why do you want to do this? You're always afraid of everything," said my eleven-year-old daughter.
"Because I'm tired of being afraid of everything." My daughter and husband exchanged knowing looks. They agreed to stop at the heliport on our way to the Grand Canyon.
As we drove into the first place with a sign proclaiming "Helicopter Rides," I felt anxious. Plain helicopters surrounded a tiny white building. The scene was nothing like the picture on the brochure.
The second heliport was worse, looking almost abandoned. We continued on, my dream of the journey diminishing.
Hope emerged as we drove down a long narrow road toward the third heliport, bright colors visible through the trees. Reaching a clearing, I could see about twenty shiny, white, futuristic helicopters with huge windows and rainbow-colored tails, some taking off, propellers whirling, excited tourists smiling from inside.
"This is it!" I cried.
My family took me up on the offer to make it my Mother's Day and birthday gift. We were each given a card with a number on it. Mine was number one.
Preparing to load us into the helicopter, the guide beckoned to me first. The realization struck me that I was to sit in the front seat right next to the pilot. I waved to my husband and daughter in the back, mouthed the words "Thank you" and sat back.
Was it scary? Yes. Empowering? Yes. Unforgettable? Yes. I was above the most beautiful amazing red rock world, gliding over endless canyons, gorges, precipices and spires.
At touchdown, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Although I had not trekked five hundred miles across mountains and fields, I had done something I had never imagined doing, conquered fears, perhaps taught my daughter and myself to take risks, discovered a new sense of confidence, and shared it all with my family.
Not bad for an average woman and mom from upstate New York in her forties.
**************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Robyn DeSantis Ringler
Robyn Ringler is a regular contributor to Nursing Spectrum and Multicultural Review. Her work has been distributed on the New York Times wire and published in the Albany Times Union, Newark Star-Ledger, and The Philosophical Mother. She has recorded personal essays for Northeast Public Radio and the Health Show, a nationally syndicated radio program. Her "Letter to Al Pacino," will appear in an anthology of American women's letters, to be published by Dial Press.
By Robyn DeSantis Ringler
I never would have gone up in a helicopter if it hadn't been for Shirley MacLaine.
Standing in a small bookshop in the Los Angeles Airport on a stopover to Tucson, I noticed a prominent display of bestsellers stacked in a tall pyramid just inside the shop. At the top stood Shirley MacLaine's book, The Camino.
Having read a couple of MacLaine's earlier spiritual journeys, I had found them charming, if not altogether believable. Imagining that this would be more of the same, I picked it up and examined the front cover.
A woman wearing a suede hiking jacket and sturdy jeans walked determinedly through the tall grass, swaying in the breeze. She bore the burden of a giant backpack and carried a long, curved, birch branch. A wide-brimmed hat was tilted down over her eyes, which studied the path in front of her. Snow-capped mountains and billowy white clouds graced the background.
The picture seemed a little too perfect. Turning the book over, I read the jacket copy.
This is the story of a journey that began with anonymous letters imploring Shirley to make a difficult pilgrimage along the Camino in Spain.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I wondered what the people who wrote the anonymous letters did for a living.
People from St. Francis of Assisi and Charlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have taken the journey, a nearly 500-mile trek across highways and fields, mountains and valleys, cities and towns. Now it would be Shirley's turn!
Ugh. Only Shirley MacLaine would rise to the level of St. Francis of Assisi and Dante and Chaucer to take a 500-mile trek across God knows where.
A woman in her sixth decade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at a rate of twenty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable.
It just figures that Shirley is in her SIXTH decade. Here I am in my forties, afraid to drive from New York to New Jersey. What normal person could possibly make a journey like this?
I put the book down, purposely not replacing it on its pyramid perch. Envious of Shirley's courage, spirituality, freedom, and money, I pouted for the rest of the flight to Arizona, thinking of my own insecurity, lack of spirituality, family responsibilities, and financial needs.
In the Tucson International Airport, my husband went to get the rental car while my daughter and I waited, stopping at a rack of brochures. I took one for the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Saguaro National Park, put one back for the shopping mall in Phoenix.
My hand soon rested on a bright orange and blue pamphlet reading: Grand Canyon Helicopter Flights. A white helicopter with a tail bearing the colors of the rainbow was shown flying through the red rock gorges of the Grand Canyon, amazed tourists peering from the curved windows. As I clutched the brochure, my heart started beating faster.
I have to do this. I need to take that helicopter flight. For an average forty-three-year-old woman from upstate New York, that would be my "pequeno camino" -- my little journey.
Move over, Shirley MacLaine!
Not wanting to take the flight alone, I spent the next two days badgering my family to go up in a helicopter.
"Mom, why do you want to do this? You're always afraid of everything," said my eleven-year-old daughter.
"Because I'm tired of being afraid of everything." My daughter and husband exchanged knowing looks. They agreed to stop at the heliport on our way to the Grand Canyon.
As we drove into the first place with a sign proclaiming "Helicopter Rides," I felt anxious. Plain helicopters surrounded a tiny white building. The scene was nothing like the picture on the brochure.
The second heliport was worse, looking almost abandoned. We continued on, my dream of the journey diminishing.
Hope emerged as we drove down a long narrow road toward the third heliport, bright colors visible through the trees. Reaching a clearing, I could see about twenty shiny, white, futuristic helicopters with huge windows and rainbow-colored tails, some taking off, propellers whirling, excited tourists smiling from inside.
"This is it!" I cried.
My family took me up on the offer to make it my Mother's Day and birthday gift. We were each given a card with a number on it. Mine was number one.
Preparing to load us into the helicopter, the guide beckoned to me first. The realization struck me that I was to sit in the front seat right next to the pilot. I waved to my husband and daughter in the back, mouthed the words "Thank you" and sat back.
Was it scary? Yes. Empowering? Yes. Unforgettable? Yes. I was above the most beautiful amazing red rock world, gliding over endless canyons, gorges, precipices and spires.
At touchdown, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Although I had not trekked five hundred miles across mountains and fields, I had done something I had never imagined doing, conquered fears, perhaps taught my daughter and myself to take risks, discovered a new sense of confidence, and shared it all with my family.
Not bad for an average woman and mom from upstate New York in her forties.
**************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Robyn DeSantis Ringler
Robyn Ringler is a regular contributor to Nursing Spectrum and Multicultural Review. Her work has been distributed on the New York Times wire and published in the Albany Times Union, Newark Star-Ledger, and The Philosophical Mother. She has recorded personal essays for Northeast Public Radio and the Health Show, a nationally syndicated radio program. Her "Letter to Al Pacino," will appear in an anthology of American women's letters, to be published by Dial Press.
Mom Like Me?
Will a Daughter Respect Her Mom's Choices?
By Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch
"I don't want to be a girl," announced my four-year-old daughter. "I don't want a baby to come out of me and my tummy to get fat. I want to be a ballerina."
My firstborn is constantly lobbing these little grenades: unanswerable questions, embarrassing comments, disturbing pronouncements. They are often fascinating and always challenging. This announcement offered plenty of openings for discussion. We could talk about how girls today can decide if and when they want to have babies. Or about how women can have children and careers. Or about how having a baby only makes one’s tummy fat while the baby is inside.
These are all lessons I want my daughter to learn. The problem is that I’m not exactly teaching by example. When I finally found the right guy and married him at the ripe age of 36, I had almost given up on having kids. Now that I have two pre-school-age children, my career is a distant memory. And don’t even ask about my tummy.
When I decided to leave the paid workforce and become a stay-at-home mom, I felt I was making a bold post-feminist statement. I had enough self-confidence, I was saying, to sacrifice money, status and intellectual stimulation for the good of my children. I didn't consider that my children might not see my choice as admirable or worthy of emulation.
But there it was. My daughter was saying—or so I felt at that cold moment—that she didn't want to turn out like me.
And why should she? I thought. She only knows one facet of who I am. She has never seen the professional me, who used to wear sleek suits and work in a shiny office building. Nor does she know the adventurous me, who nearly floated out to sea on a broken windsurfer. She hasn’t met the idealistic me, who worked with inner-city youth, or the literary me, who was feted at book release parties.
Instead, she knows the maternal me, who washes dishes but does not always wash her hair. The me she knows has more opinions about naps and choking risks than about social policy. The biggest risk she’s seen me take was letting my not-yet-potty-trained son run naked across the living room carpet.
I am pleased that my daughter wants more for herself than slicing hot dogs and wiping bottoms. And it's okay if she chooses not to have children. But I hope she won’t make that choice because she thinks childrearing is not compatible with ambition, or accomplishment, or self-respect.
Yet what else is she to learn from me if what she sees is, at best, a warm, nurturing and self-sacrificing mom, and at worst, a bored housewife? Of course, she doesn’t really see me that way; I do. That’s the problem. My old, career-oriented self is not entirely respectful of my new way of life.
Yet I know it is right for me to spend these precious years of early childhood at home with my children. It is a gift for me to see the world anew each day through their unjaded eyes and watch them develop from helpless babies into complex and independent beings. And it’s not just for me; I believe that my consistent and loving presence is good for the children. Beneath all the doubts, I am proud of the path I have chosen.
The options that mothers have today, brought to us by years of struggle, carry with them an awful burden. Since society will no longer tell us what to do, we have to take responsibility for our own choices. I will be a better role model, I have decided, if I embrace my pride rather than my doubts.
I’m also trying to make sure my daughter knows that her mother has some interests besides reading Madeline and picking bits of broccoli out of the carpet. These days, I make sure I get time each week for writing, research and other pursuits that have nothing to do with raising children.
I think my efforts are paying off: last week while making a little book about herself, my daughter addressed the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” by drawing two pictures. One she identified as a ballerina. The other, she said, was a mommy.
So I’ve stopped apologizing when I leave the kids with a babysitter while I go out to spend a few hours writing. When I also stop apologizing to myself, I sometimes actually accomplish something in those stolen -- no, necessary -- hours.
Then, when I return and my daughter flings herself upon me, crying "Mommy! I missed you!" I don't feel guilty. It’s important for her to learn, and for me to believe, that moms can be other things as well: writers, and perhaps, even ballerinas.
Of course, whether they can also have firm tummies remains to be seen.
**********************
Copyright 2004 Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch
Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch is the author of the nonfiction book, A City Year: On the Streets and in the Neighborhoods with Twelve Young Community Service Volunteers, published by the New Press in 1993. She has also published articles in Parents, Columnbus Parents, The Washington Monthly, The American Prospect, and other journals, magazines, and newspapers.
By Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch
"I don't want to be a girl," announced my four-year-old daughter. "I don't want a baby to come out of me and my tummy to get fat. I want to be a ballerina."
My firstborn is constantly lobbing these little grenades: unanswerable questions, embarrassing comments, disturbing pronouncements. They are often fascinating and always challenging. This announcement offered plenty of openings for discussion. We could talk about how girls today can decide if and when they want to have babies. Or about how women can have children and careers. Or about how having a baby only makes one’s tummy fat while the baby is inside.
These are all lessons I want my daughter to learn. The problem is that I’m not exactly teaching by example. When I finally found the right guy and married him at the ripe age of 36, I had almost given up on having kids. Now that I have two pre-school-age children, my career is a distant memory. And don’t even ask about my tummy.
When I decided to leave the paid workforce and become a stay-at-home mom, I felt I was making a bold post-feminist statement. I had enough self-confidence, I was saying, to sacrifice money, status and intellectual stimulation for the good of my children. I didn't consider that my children might not see my choice as admirable or worthy of emulation.
But there it was. My daughter was saying—or so I felt at that cold moment—that she didn't want to turn out like me.
And why should she? I thought. She only knows one facet of who I am. She has never seen the professional me, who used to wear sleek suits and work in a shiny office building. Nor does she know the adventurous me, who nearly floated out to sea on a broken windsurfer. She hasn’t met the idealistic me, who worked with inner-city youth, or the literary me, who was feted at book release parties.
Instead, she knows the maternal me, who washes dishes but does not always wash her hair. The me she knows has more opinions about naps and choking risks than about social policy. The biggest risk she’s seen me take was letting my not-yet-potty-trained son run naked across the living room carpet.
I am pleased that my daughter wants more for herself than slicing hot dogs and wiping bottoms. And it's okay if she chooses not to have children. But I hope she won’t make that choice because she thinks childrearing is not compatible with ambition, or accomplishment, or self-respect.
Yet what else is she to learn from me if what she sees is, at best, a warm, nurturing and self-sacrificing mom, and at worst, a bored housewife? Of course, she doesn’t really see me that way; I do. That’s the problem. My old, career-oriented self is not entirely respectful of my new way of life.
Yet I know it is right for me to spend these precious years of early childhood at home with my children. It is a gift for me to see the world anew each day through their unjaded eyes and watch them develop from helpless babies into complex and independent beings. And it’s not just for me; I believe that my consistent and loving presence is good for the children. Beneath all the doubts, I am proud of the path I have chosen.
The options that mothers have today, brought to us by years of struggle, carry with them an awful burden. Since society will no longer tell us what to do, we have to take responsibility for our own choices. I will be a better role model, I have decided, if I embrace my pride rather than my doubts.
I’m also trying to make sure my daughter knows that her mother has some interests besides reading Madeline and picking bits of broccoli out of the carpet. These days, I make sure I get time each week for writing, research and other pursuits that have nothing to do with raising children.
I think my efforts are paying off: last week while making a little book about herself, my daughter addressed the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” by drawing two pictures. One she identified as a ballerina. The other, she said, was a mommy.
So I’ve stopped apologizing when I leave the kids with a babysitter while I go out to spend a few hours writing. When I also stop apologizing to myself, I sometimes actually accomplish something in those stolen -- no, necessary -- hours.
Then, when I return and my daughter flings herself upon me, crying "Mommy! I missed you!" I don't feel guilty. It’s important for her to learn, and for me to believe, that moms can be other things as well: writers, and perhaps, even ballerinas.
Of course, whether they can also have firm tummies remains to be seen.
**********************
Copyright 2004 Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch
Suzanne Goldsmith-Hirsch is the author of the nonfiction book, A City Year: On the Streets and in the Neighborhoods with Twelve Young Community Service Volunteers, published by the New Press in 1993. She has also published articles in Parents, Columnbus Parents, The Washington Monthly, The American Prospect, and other journals, magazines, and newspapers.
Tricks to Writing a Novel in Your Free (!) Time
A Mother Balances Work, Kids, and Writing
By Alina Adams
Got kids? Got a job? Got a life? Also got a burning need to write a novel? Yeah. Me, too.
Got a problem? Yeah. Me, too.
In the two years prior to the birth of my oldest child, I'd published three romance novels, dozens of magazine articles, and a non-fiction book on figure skating, while working a full-time job. In the four years since the birth of my oldest child, I've published one romance novel, one non-fiction book on figure skater Sarah Hughes, and one mystery novel. Although it's certainly no mystery why my output has dropped so precipitously.
It took a lot of trial and error (and crying over spilled breast-milk on a computer keyboard) before I even began to figure out how to balance the mothering with the mystery, the toddler with the typing, and the wailing with the writing.
However, four years later, I can honestly say that I've managed to work out a few Working Mom Tricks For Writing a Novel in Your Free (!) Time, which I am eager to share with those interested in forgoing trivial matters like eating, sleeping, and the facade of sanity, all in order to indulge that elusive muse and squeeze a satisfying writing side-dish on to an already overflowing platter.
Trick #1: Think First.
In Stanley Kubrick's film The Shining, aspiring writer Jack Nicholson goes ballistic when wife Shelley Duval interrupts him with the excuse, "I didn't hear you typing, so I thought you weren't working."
"Just because you don't hear me typing," Jack roars back, "Doesn't mean I'm not working." (And then he goes on a killing spree. Just ignore that part.)
The homicidal lunatic has a point.
"Writing" is the act of actually sitting at a keyboard and tapping keys to produce words that might one day form sentences and then actual, coherent thoughts. "Writing" is an act that can and often is interrupted by someone wanting to sit on your lap and visit, "Noggin.com, please!" (one would hope that's your child and not your boss), as well as by someone asking you to watch his phone while he pops out to lunch with his latest girlfriend (one would hope that's a co-worker and not your husband).
"Working," on the other hand, consists merely of thinking about what you're going to write, and thus can be done while driving, washing dishes, doing laundry, making beds, giving baths, standing in line at the grocery store, packing lunches, showering, breastfeeding, pushing a carriage, standing on a subway platform, cooking, and even while reading The Cat in the Hat for the umpteenth time, since you probably can do the whole thing on auto-pilot by now.
The best part is, "working" works. You don't have to be in front of a computer to think about a scene, to decide what you want it to be about, where you want to set it, how you want each character to approach it, and where you need it to lead. Remember reading The Cat in the Hat until you can trill it by heart? Playing the same scene in your head over and over again, polishing the dialogue, tightening the structure, picking just the right word to describe a key plot point makes it much, much easier to maximize your precious computer time once you do get the squatters off your lap.
Trick #2: Skip Lunch.
And on-line solitaire. The law mandates that every employee receive a one-hour lunch every day. The law does not mandate what you can or should do with it.
Look at that computer on your desk. It can be used for reports and spreadsheets and schedules. It can also be used for writing your book. In your free time.
What free time? Well, there's lunch for a start. A good hour to sit in relative silence and get your thoughts together-- on paper, no less!
Plus, let's be honest, here: Lunch aside, how much of those seven other hours at work do you use for getting the job done, and how many are spent playing solitaire, surfing the web, chatting with co-workers and forwarding e-mail jokes and petitions?
That's all prime writing time. No one is suggesting shirking your duties and risking your job. But if you're going to take breaks anyway, why not get your high from writing instead of caffeine?
Trick #3: Write Longhand.
Even the most lightweight laptop is a tricky thing to schlep to the playground or Gymboree. However, a notebook and pen fit easily into the most crowded diaper bag (strong suggestion: Attach the pen to the notebook or you'll loose both in the Desitin Depths). Write longhand while you're sitting on a bench at the playground. Write longhand while you're standing and rocking a stroller with your foot. Write longhand while breastfeeding and while waiting for your pasta to boil and while waiting outside of "My First Karate Class."
The best part is, entering your text into the computer later will give you the chance to revaluate your work with a fresh eye, fix those mistakes made on the first go around and, best of all, also counts as an official second draft (i.e., you're that much closer now to a polished manuscript!).
Trick #4: Get Your Kids into the Act.
Experts say that reading to your children is the best thing any parent can do to bond, raise IQ and otherwise earn their Mother-of-the-Year stripes. Sure, toddlers and up would probably rather hear Winnie the Pooh than "Mommy's-Work-in-Progress." But, can an infant really tell the difference?
Nothing gives writers a better idea of whether a scene, especially one featuring lots of dialogue, is working, than reading it out loud. It can be an ego-crushing experience as you realize that the brilliance you heard in your head doesn't quite match the drivel you seem to be articulating now, but that which does not kill you gets you ready for more editorial rejection later on. And that's a good thing. Probably.
So grab that baby and that manuscript and read it out loud until the prose finally shines. Or your infant is old enough to start requesting a different title.
Then start again with the next book-- and the next child.
**********************************
Reprinted with permission of author
Copyright Alina Adams
Alina Adams is a New York City-based working mother of two boys (a five-year-old and a one-year-old), the author of four romance novels, two non-fiction books, multiple magazine articles, and the author of Murder on Ice: A Figure Skating Mystery (Berkley Prime Crime 11/03). Her second book, On Thin Ice: A Figure Skating Mystery (Berkeley Prime Crime 10/04) was written while breastfeeding her younger child and filling out applications for her older son's school. Alina is usually exhausted, and doesn't really recommend her lifestyle to anyone but the most writing-obsessed. She can be reached at http://www.AlinaAdams.com.
By Alina Adams
Got kids? Got a job? Got a life? Also got a burning need to write a novel? Yeah. Me, too.
Got a problem? Yeah. Me, too.
In the two years prior to the birth of my oldest child, I'd published three romance novels, dozens of magazine articles, and a non-fiction book on figure skating, while working a full-time job. In the four years since the birth of my oldest child, I've published one romance novel, one non-fiction book on figure skater Sarah Hughes, and one mystery novel. Although it's certainly no mystery why my output has dropped so precipitously.
It took a lot of trial and error (and crying over spilled breast-milk on a computer keyboard) before I even began to figure out how to balance the mothering with the mystery, the toddler with the typing, and the wailing with the writing.
However, four years later, I can honestly say that I've managed to work out a few Working Mom Tricks For Writing a Novel in Your Free (!) Time, which I am eager to share with those interested in forgoing trivial matters like eating, sleeping, and the facade of sanity, all in order to indulge that elusive muse and squeeze a satisfying writing side-dish on to an already overflowing platter.
Trick #1: Think First.
In Stanley Kubrick's film The Shining, aspiring writer Jack Nicholson goes ballistic when wife Shelley Duval interrupts him with the excuse, "I didn't hear you typing, so I thought you weren't working."
"Just because you don't hear me typing," Jack roars back, "Doesn't mean I'm not working." (And then he goes on a killing spree. Just ignore that part.)
The homicidal lunatic has a point.
"Writing" is the act of actually sitting at a keyboard and tapping keys to produce words that might one day form sentences and then actual, coherent thoughts. "Writing" is an act that can and often is interrupted by someone wanting to sit on your lap and visit, "Noggin.com, please!" (one would hope that's your child and not your boss), as well as by someone asking you to watch his phone while he pops out to lunch with his latest girlfriend (one would hope that's a co-worker and not your husband).
"Working," on the other hand, consists merely of thinking about what you're going to write, and thus can be done while driving, washing dishes, doing laundry, making beds, giving baths, standing in line at the grocery store, packing lunches, showering, breastfeeding, pushing a carriage, standing on a subway platform, cooking, and even while reading The Cat in the Hat for the umpteenth time, since you probably can do the whole thing on auto-pilot by now.
The best part is, "working" works. You don't have to be in front of a computer to think about a scene, to decide what you want it to be about, where you want to set it, how you want each character to approach it, and where you need it to lead. Remember reading The Cat in the Hat until you can trill it by heart? Playing the same scene in your head over and over again, polishing the dialogue, tightening the structure, picking just the right word to describe a key plot point makes it much, much easier to maximize your precious computer time once you do get the squatters off your lap.
Trick #2: Skip Lunch.
And on-line solitaire. The law mandates that every employee receive a one-hour lunch every day. The law does not mandate what you can or should do with it.
Look at that computer on your desk. It can be used for reports and spreadsheets and schedules. It can also be used for writing your book. In your free time.
What free time? Well, there's lunch for a start. A good hour to sit in relative silence and get your thoughts together-- on paper, no less!
Plus, let's be honest, here: Lunch aside, how much of those seven other hours at work do you use for getting the job done, and how many are spent playing solitaire, surfing the web, chatting with co-workers and forwarding e-mail jokes and petitions?
That's all prime writing time. No one is suggesting shirking your duties and risking your job. But if you're going to take breaks anyway, why not get your high from writing instead of caffeine?
Trick #3: Write Longhand.
Even the most lightweight laptop is a tricky thing to schlep to the playground or Gymboree. However, a notebook and pen fit easily into the most crowded diaper bag (strong suggestion: Attach the pen to the notebook or you'll loose both in the Desitin Depths). Write longhand while you're sitting on a bench at the playground. Write longhand while you're standing and rocking a stroller with your foot. Write longhand while breastfeeding and while waiting for your pasta to boil and while waiting outside of "My First Karate Class."
The best part is, entering your text into the computer later will give you the chance to revaluate your work with a fresh eye, fix those mistakes made on the first go around and, best of all, also counts as an official second draft (i.e., you're that much closer now to a polished manuscript!).
Trick #4: Get Your Kids into the Act.
Experts say that reading to your children is the best thing any parent can do to bond, raise IQ and otherwise earn their Mother-of-the-Year stripes. Sure, toddlers and up would probably rather hear Winnie the Pooh than "Mommy's-Work-in-Progress." But, can an infant really tell the difference?
Nothing gives writers a better idea of whether a scene, especially one featuring lots of dialogue, is working, than reading it out loud. It can be an ego-crushing experience as you realize that the brilliance you heard in your head doesn't quite match the drivel you seem to be articulating now, but that which does not kill you gets you ready for more editorial rejection later on. And that's a good thing. Probably.
So grab that baby and that manuscript and read it out loud until the prose finally shines. Or your infant is old enough to start requesting a different title.
Then start again with the next book-- and the next child.
**********************************
Reprinted with permission of author
Copyright Alina Adams
Alina Adams is a New York City-based working mother of two boys (a five-year-old and a one-year-old), the author of four romance novels, two non-fiction books, multiple magazine articles, and the author of Murder on Ice: A Figure Skating Mystery (Berkley Prime Crime 11/03). Her second book, On Thin Ice: A Figure Skating Mystery (Berkeley Prime Crime 10/04) was written while breastfeeding her younger child and filling out applications for her older son's school. Alina is usually exhausted, and doesn't really recommend her lifestyle to anyone but the most writing-obsessed. She can be reached at http://www.AlinaAdams.com.
Tao of Kanga
A Yearning for Serene Motherhood
By Shawna Goodrich
Pathetic really, but true; watching Piglet’s Big Movie with my two children I found myself wondering why I am not more like Kanga. There she is on the screen scrubbing the kitchen, baking cookies, and inviting Roo’s friends in for a “little something” with a great big smile. No anxiety on her face, no discomfort, just a big old smile borne out of sheer motherhood contentment. Yes, I realize Kanga is a cartoon character and a kangaroo, but still she represents what I am not – a cheery and easy-going mother.
I ask myself the question, again: What is it that I expect from myself as a mother? The question plagues me; occupies too many of my waking hours. I think about it from every angle and context, but no matter how I approach it I come back to the same question. The women I talk to – moms who stay-at-home, work part-time, full-time, single, married, lesbian – irrespective of their circumstances, reel in a sea of motherhood guilt and anxiety. The cultural context of motherhood certainly nourishes our insecurities but there has to be more to it. Why do we, why do I, buy into it? Why do I feel guilty and anxious over things that I know are irrational? What is this about?
Like every woman I knew in my generation, those born in the 1960’s, I set my sights on a goal and a life plan. I marched out into the world expecting to conquer it. I thought about life after kids only intermittently, assuming I would make some small adjustments (a little tweaking) and go on as usual. Kids would simply be one more life step. I valiantly stepped into motherhood expecting to tackle this new feat the same way I handle every other aspect of my life – with confidence and logic. Yet, those first steps into motherhood moved through me like shock waves; akin to a collision with a hit and run driver. I hit the pavement with a thud and never saw where the blow came from.
Once confident and commonsensical, I became an unsure and silly mother. I no longer trusted my instincts or my ability to handle difficult situations. Unable to trust myself, I felt that I could never let my guard down. I became the antithesis of Kanga.
Kanga handles the ordinary tribulations of motherhood with unwavering composure. As Roo is hopping about, making a nuisance of himself, she giggles and carries on with her domestic chores. When Roo accidentally dumps a pail of water on Eeyore’s head, rather than directing him to apologize, she chuckles. She is oblivious to the water Roo splatters about as she bathes him. After the bath, he darts out the window to join his friends in their search for Piglet and she nonchalantly hands out cookies and wishes them all good luck. Roo is free to depart without reminders, warnings, or interrogations.
Her reaction to a ruse by Pooh, Tigger, Eyeore, and Rabbit is notably impressive. They abscond with Roo by substituting him for Piglet in her pouch. Rather than yelling at Piglet and running after Roo, she coyly plays along with their scheme. Pretending Piglet is Roo, she feeds him a spoonful of fish oil to help him regain his bounce, bathes him, primps over him and tucks him into bed with a cookie. As she plays along with their hoax, she hums to a song about a “mother’s intuition.” The song is an unambiguous reminder that her maternal instincts will never fail her, she will sort out any situation that confronts her without anxiety.
Kanga has two qualities I envy. She trusts her instincts and her nervous system is not stuck on alert. When my kids are jumping around the house, I am not buzzing around attending to house work. I am nervously watching and waiting for a calamity. On occasion, I am capable of ignoring my children when they are making a nuisance of themselves, but my customary response is to shout. At bath time, I remind them not to splash water outside the tub because I want to remain dry and avoid extra household work. When they do splash water outside the tub, I anxiously hold them as they walk through the area that was wet even though I have now thoroughly dried it.
My children are not yet old enough to head out the door with a group of friends, but when they are, I doubt I will be handing out cookies and sending them off without subjecting them to a tedious cross-examination. For the record, my anxieties concerning safety have nothing to do with the community I live in, as it is a small island with a population of 3,500 where most people cannot remember where they keep the keys to the house. The point is, if I was living with Kanga in the Hundred Acre Woods, I would still be a nervous and insecure mother.
I struggle to stay in the moment when I am with my children. When I manage to get there, I feel irritation that is mostly about differences in how we do trivial things, such as playing a game or reading a book. Take, for example, playing ball with my son and daughter. My 2-year-old son thinks that holding onto the ball rather than throwing it is amusing. I indulge him for about a minute, at most, and then tell him to throw the ball to his sister. His reply is no, not yet. My daughter seems indifferent about the game, but I get annoyed, although I know what he is doing. He is experiencing feeling in control. My problem is I feel I have lost all control.
Before having children, I knew, for the most part, what I could do in a day, when I could do it and how I felt about each activity. Now I never know what to expect in a day. It is impossible to predict if and for how long my children will cooperate with my plans. On days when I expect them to resist going to day care they appear quite happy and then on days I’m not working and they don’t have to go, they have simultaneous or alternating temper tantrums. But fluctuating moods are not exclusive to my kids; I vacillate between feelings of resentment and bursting love. The emotional chaos between the three of us is exhausting. It reminds me of a cockeyed romantic relationship. I miss the predictability that comes from a well-organized life.
A problem that Kanga and other icons pose is that they perpetuate the myth that motherhood is not about women’s sacrifices. Studies show that women working for pay, whether out of economic necessity or personal choice, experience the greatest time-pressures and stress among mothers. Women who can and do choose to stay at home, sacrifice their own personal needs and time to raise their children, giving up their careers and aspirations. Icons like Kanga undermine these realities of motherhood by representing mothering as selfless, sustaining, and natural, rather than as complex and conflicting. Discrepancies between representations and realities wreck havoc on our maternal psyches.
House, relationships, time, body, children, finances and emotions all spill together in my jumbled life. There is nothing clean, neat or manageable about it. So, it is not surprising that I watch Kanga with a wistful yearning to become a placid and serene mother with a great big smile.
******************************************
Copyright 2004 Shawna Goodrich
Shawna Goodrich is a 38-year-old mother of two toddlers. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.
By Shawna Goodrich
Pathetic really, but true; watching Piglet’s Big Movie with my two children I found myself wondering why I am not more like Kanga. There she is on the screen scrubbing the kitchen, baking cookies, and inviting Roo’s friends in for a “little something” with a great big smile. No anxiety on her face, no discomfort, just a big old smile borne out of sheer motherhood contentment. Yes, I realize Kanga is a cartoon character and a kangaroo, but still she represents what I am not – a cheery and easy-going mother.
I ask myself the question, again: What is it that I expect from myself as a mother? The question plagues me; occupies too many of my waking hours. I think about it from every angle and context, but no matter how I approach it I come back to the same question. The women I talk to – moms who stay-at-home, work part-time, full-time, single, married, lesbian – irrespective of their circumstances, reel in a sea of motherhood guilt and anxiety. The cultural context of motherhood certainly nourishes our insecurities but there has to be more to it. Why do we, why do I, buy into it? Why do I feel guilty and anxious over things that I know are irrational? What is this about?
Like every woman I knew in my generation, those born in the 1960’s, I set my sights on a goal and a life plan. I marched out into the world expecting to conquer it. I thought about life after kids only intermittently, assuming I would make some small adjustments (a little tweaking) and go on as usual. Kids would simply be one more life step. I valiantly stepped into motherhood expecting to tackle this new feat the same way I handle every other aspect of my life – with confidence and logic. Yet, those first steps into motherhood moved through me like shock waves; akin to a collision with a hit and run driver. I hit the pavement with a thud and never saw where the blow came from.
Once confident and commonsensical, I became an unsure and silly mother. I no longer trusted my instincts or my ability to handle difficult situations. Unable to trust myself, I felt that I could never let my guard down. I became the antithesis of Kanga.
Kanga handles the ordinary tribulations of motherhood with unwavering composure. As Roo is hopping about, making a nuisance of himself, she giggles and carries on with her domestic chores. When Roo accidentally dumps a pail of water on Eeyore’s head, rather than directing him to apologize, she chuckles. She is oblivious to the water Roo splatters about as she bathes him. After the bath, he darts out the window to join his friends in their search for Piglet and she nonchalantly hands out cookies and wishes them all good luck. Roo is free to depart without reminders, warnings, or interrogations.
Her reaction to a ruse by Pooh, Tigger, Eyeore, and Rabbit is notably impressive. They abscond with Roo by substituting him for Piglet in her pouch. Rather than yelling at Piglet and running after Roo, she coyly plays along with their scheme. Pretending Piglet is Roo, she feeds him a spoonful of fish oil to help him regain his bounce, bathes him, primps over him and tucks him into bed with a cookie. As she plays along with their hoax, she hums to a song about a “mother’s intuition.” The song is an unambiguous reminder that her maternal instincts will never fail her, she will sort out any situation that confronts her without anxiety.
Kanga has two qualities I envy. She trusts her instincts and her nervous system is not stuck on alert. When my kids are jumping around the house, I am not buzzing around attending to house work. I am nervously watching and waiting for a calamity. On occasion, I am capable of ignoring my children when they are making a nuisance of themselves, but my customary response is to shout. At bath time, I remind them not to splash water outside the tub because I want to remain dry and avoid extra household work. When they do splash water outside the tub, I anxiously hold them as they walk through the area that was wet even though I have now thoroughly dried it.
My children are not yet old enough to head out the door with a group of friends, but when they are, I doubt I will be handing out cookies and sending them off without subjecting them to a tedious cross-examination. For the record, my anxieties concerning safety have nothing to do with the community I live in, as it is a small island with a population of 3,500 where most people cannot remember where they keep the keys to the house. The point is, if I was living with Kanga in the Hundred Acre Woods, I would still be a nervous and insecure mother.
I struggle to stay in the moment when I am with my children. When I manage to get there, I feel irritation that is mostly about differences in how we do trivial things, such as playing a game or reading a book. Take, for example, playing ball with my son and daughter. My 2-year-old son thinks that holding onto the ball rather than throwing it is amusing. I indulge him for about a minute, at most, and then tell him to throw the ball to his sister. His reply is no, not yet. My daughter seems indifferent about the game, but I get annoyed, although I know what he is doing. He is experiencing feeling in control. My problem is I feel I have lost all control.
Before having children, I knew, for the most part, what I could do in a day, when I could do it and how I felt about each activity. Now I never know what to expect in a day. It is impossible to predict if and for how long my children will cooperate with my plans. On days when I expect them to resist going to day care they appear quite happy and then on days I’m not working and they don’t have to go, they have simultaneous or alternating temper tantrums. But fluctuating moods are not exclusive to my kids; I vacillate between feelings of resentment and bursting love. The emotional chaos between the three of us is exhausting. It reminds me of a cockeyed romantic relationship. I miss the predictability that comes from a well-organized life.
A problem that Kanga and other icons pose is that they perpetuate the myth that motherhood is not about women’s sacrifices. Studies show that women working for pay, whether out of economic necessity or personal choice, experience the greatest time-pressures and stress among mothers. Women who can and do choose to stay at home, sacrifice their own personal needs and time to raise their children, giving up their careers and aspirations. Icons like Kanga undermine these realities of motherhood by representing mothering as selfless, sustaining, and natural, rather than as complex and conflicting. Discrepancies between representations and realities wreck havoc on our maternal psyches.
House, relationships, time, body, children, finances and emotions all spill together in my jumbled life. There is nothing clean, neat or manageable about it. So, it is not surprising that I watch Kanga with a wistful yearning to become a placid and serene mother with a great big smile.
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Copyright 2004 Shawna Goodrich
Shawna Goodrich is a 38-year-old mother of two toddlers. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.
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