So tonight, on an unusually warm evening for this time of year, my husband has agreed to join me for a walk. As I study the sky from the window by my desk, I see that there must be a thousand stars tonight, all sparkling like fireflies.
Sarah Benson
Nobody’s Perfect
Give what you have. It may be better than you think.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
After I discovered that the real life of mothers bore little resemblance to the plot outlined in most of the books and articles I’d read, I started relying on the expert advice of other mothers.
Most of their useful survival tips were too insignificant for the pediatric “experts” to bother with, but for those of us stationed on the front lines, they saved countless lives. I remember trying to talk with my friend Joan one afternoon while my older son fussed in his playpen, flinging his toys overboard and then wailing loudly. Undoubtedly recognizing the homicidal glint in my eye as I got up for the fiftieth time, Joan asked if I had a roll of cellophane tape. I immediately thought she was going to tape his mouth shut—a thought that had begun forming darkly in my own mind—but instead, she gently wrapped it, sticky side out, around his fingers on both hands. For the next half hour, he was totally absorbed, testing the tactile surface on his shirt, nose, hair, toes.
“Where did you learn this stuff?” I asked Joan, who possessed a wealth of small but effective techniques for preventing child abuse.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess after five kids, I think like one: ‘What would be fun?’”
I also relied on my friends whenever I needed a sanity check. One year, I’d completely lost my bearings, trying to follow potty-training instructions from a psychiatric expert who guaranteed success in three days. I was stuck on step one, which stated without an atom of irony: “Before you begin, remove all stubbornness from the child.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Joan asked one day. At the rate we were going, I confessed, my younger son would be ten years old and still in diapers.
Joan laughed, deeply familiar with “the guilties.” Mothers breathe guilt on the job every day, like germs in the air. She recommended I accept stubbornness as a fact of childhood. (“Powerlessness corrupts,” she often said.) She then taught me a game using toilet paper rolls: Darren found it so amusing, he practically moved into the bathroom— and mastered another level of civilization.
Every time I told Joan what a terrific mother she was, she would respond with the story of a “bad-mother” day. She told me about waking up once in the middle of the night, foggy-brained, unable to remember putting her two-year-old to bed. She got up and was horrified to find the baby’s crib empty. Racing frantically through the house, she finally found Patty in the kitchen, sound asleep in her high chair. “At least I’d strapped her in,” Joan said.
Nobody’s perfect, we knew, but mothers are somehow expected to exceed all human limits. This ideal is especially preposterous since mothers are likely to have more bad days on the job than most professionals, considering the hours: round-the-clock, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, no sick days.
Given the punishing rules—and the contemptuous labels for any mom who breaks them—mothers are reluctant to admit having bad days. We all have them, of course, a secret that only makes us feel more guilty. But once my friends and I started telling the truth, we couldn’t stop.
One mother admitted leaving the grocery store without her kids—“I just forgot them. They were in frozen foods, eating Eskimo Pies.”
Most of our bad-mother stories didn’t look so awful in retrospect: some, however, looked much worse. Every one of my friends had a bad-mother day somewhere in her history she wished she could forget—but couldn’t.
But however painful or compromising the reality of motherhood, we preferred it to the national game of “Let’s Pretend,” the fantasy in which we are all supposed to pass for perfect mothers in perfect families.
Once I’d given birth to my sons, there were no guarantees. That first burst of love expanded over the next two decades, along with the growing realization that I could not possess them for long, keep them safe, insure their happy lives. Joy/pain . . . joy/pain . . . the heartbeat of motherhood.
Mary Kay Blakely
A Mother’s Letter to Santa
Dear Santa,
Here are my Christmas wishes:
I’d like a pair of legs that don’t ache after a day of chasing kids (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don’t flap in the breeze, but are strong enough to carry a screaming toddler out of the candy aisle in the grocery store. I’d also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.
If you’re hauling big-ticket items this year, I’d like a car with fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music, a television that doesn’t broadcast any programs containing talking animals, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.
On the practical side, I could use a talking daughter doll that says, “Yes, Mommy,” to boost my parental confidence, along with one potty-trained toddler, two kids who don’t fight, and three pairs of jeans that zip all the way up without the use of power tools.
I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting, “Don’t eat in the living room,” and “Take your hands off your brother,” because my voice seems to be out of my children’s hearing range and can only be heard by the dog. But please, don’t forgo the Play-Doh Travel Pack, the hottest stocking stuffer this year for mothers of preschoolers. It comes in three fluorescent colors guaranteed to crumble on any carpet and make the in-laws’ house seem just like home.
If it’s too late to find any of these products, I’d settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.
If you don’t mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family, or if my toddler didn’t look so cute sneaking downstairs to eat contraband ice cream in his pajamas at midnight.
Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is going off, and I’ve got to run. Have a safe trip, and remember to leave your wet boots by the chimney and come in and dry off by the fire so you don’t catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table, but don’t eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.
Always,
Mom
P.S. One more thing, Santa, you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in you.
Debbie Farmer
off the mark by Mark Parisi
www.offthemark.com
Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2000.
Momma’s Little Surprise
I got a call from a friend the other day, asking me if 7:00 A.M. is too early to start drinking when one must try on mail-order bathing suits. I said, “Hell, no! And if I were you, I would start slamming down the tequila an hour prior to ripping into the first plastic bag.”
She thanked me and said she knew she could count on my support. “No problem,” I replied; we women need to stick together.
Her phone call sent me into shock as it reminded me it was that time of year again and somehow I had forgotten to go on a diet. I’m not vain; I’m fat. Over the past sixteen years, my husband and I gained seventy-five pounds collectively. Sadly, our accountant rolled his eyes at us when we asked if we could claim our girth as a new dependant. I said, “Come on! We’ve gained the equivalent of a fourth-grader; that’s gotta count for something.” His answer was a firm no.
At any rate, it is time for my annual disrobing and a chance to see what one more year has done to my body.
/> Worse, by far though, is that this year I need to buy a new bathing suit, and the thought gives me tremors, especially because of what happened the last time I bought a new suit.
I forked over eighty bucks for a catalog swimsuit that promised I would look slimmer, trimmer and younger. Yeah, I know I foolhardily bought into the propaganda, but at this point in my life, I would try voodoo if I thought it would work.
I decided on the black mock tankini that came equipped with a shelf bra and the promise that the steel-enforced fabric would tuck my tummy and firm my fanny. It arrived the day we left for vacation, so I threw it in my suitcase and headed for the beach.
I tugged, I pulled, I sweated. An hour later, the suit was on and, oh boy, did I feel fabulously firm. I walked to the full-length mirror and let out a scream so primal that my kids banged on the bedroom door, asking if they should call an ambulance. I told them no, but then said that maybe they could call the local butcher and ask if he’s interested in buying a human sausage link.
The shelf bra worked its magic. It coaxed my normally low-hanging breasts up to my earlobes. I now had what looked like a horrible case of the mumps. Not only that, but some of the flesh decided it did not want to meet my neck and would rather hang out elsewhere. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn someone shoved hotdog rolls under my armpits.
As for the tummy tucker, well there is a little known scientific fact that states, “What gets smushed in, also gets smushed out.”
Sure, I had a flat tummy but that’s because all the subcutaneous fat pushed itself down and out of the bottom of the suit. I had a sorry case of frontal butt cheeks.
After that, I swore I’d never purchase another swimsuit again until I lost weight, but like I said, somehow dieting slipped my mind. This year, I am trying a new approach to the swimsuit fiasco. I told my husband and children that for Mother’s Day I would rather have a gift certificate to the local sporting goods store, instead of the usual dinner out. When they asked me why, I said, “It’s a surprise.”
This summer, I’m gonna buy me a full-length wetsuit. Whadda ya think about that? Creative huh? No more crying or screaming for me. No siree, this year, I’ll be tucked and smooth from neck to ankles.
I’ve decided against the flippers, though. I do have long, slim toes that I want to accentuate with pink, Day-Glo toenail polish. As for the goggles, I’m still not sure. My impeccable fashion sense tells me that would be overdoing it.
Golly, I just had a fabulous thought. My thirteen-year-old daughter finds my mere presence on this earth an embarrassment to her. Wait until she gets a load of my new beachwear.
Susan Krushenick
Look at Me
“Look at me, Mum.”
Jason’s shrill voice skimmed across the water. Jen grunted and went on dipping out leaves, jabbing angrily at the water. She had had enough.
It wasn’t Jason’s fault. Of course he had lots of energy— he was a boy. She just wished he wasn’t so constantly demanding. It had been Jen’s idea to work from home— she’d done it when Callista was tiny. They just couldn’t afford for her not to work at all.
“Look, Mum.”
“I’m looking,” Jen growled, regretting it instantly. She hunched over, feeling guilty, glaring at the water.
“You’re not watching, Mum.”
“Okay.”
She smiled at him, wiping her hands on her long cotton sundress. He was kneeling up on his little inflatable boat. He couldn’t swim properly but he had floaties on his arms, and Jen made sure he stayed at the shallow end where he could stand. The boat was cute—it had a funnel and ropes around it. He could hang on to it and float all round the pool if she was with him.
“Whee!!” Jason leapt and splashed into the water. He paddled around, whooping breathlessly, until he could grab hold of the boat.
“Good, darling. Really good.”
Jen went back to scooping. It was partly her husband, Andrew’s, fault. He had promised that if they had another he would stay home. Why should it be her? Why should she have to give up all her chances? There had been the big promotion opportunity—his, of course—and the pay raise they couldn’t afford to miss. She would never have agreed to another child if she’d known.
Jen had enjoyed Callista’s company so much that she almost missed her when she slept. For three blissful years, from the time Callista learned to walk until the time she went to kindergarten, they did everything together. While Jen worked, Callista would look at books or draw pictures or help in her own way with the housework; they would shop together with endless discussions about what to buy. Callista would tell her when the postman had come, remind her to buy food for the cat, give her a hug when she felt a little low—somehow Callista always knew, even when she tried to hide it.
“Look, Mum! I’m gonna do it again.”
“I’m busy.”
Jason couldn’t have been more different. She couldn’t talk to anyone anymore; she couldn’t read a book. He was there, constantly demanding her attention, testing her. Nothing seemed to keep him occupied more than a few minutes, and then he was at her again. Why couldn’t he entertain himself? Why couldn’t he invent something to do? Her attempts at work were an agony, and in the end she always had to do it at night when Andrew was there and she wanted to relax. It just wasn’t fair, and the worst of it was that Andrew hated her mentioning it. Jason was always half-asleep by the time he came home. Sometimes she just wanted to go away and leave them all to it. Go away and never come back.
It was the silence that made her look up.
The first thing she saw was the boat. For a moment she thought it was empty, then she realized that Jason’s feet were still in it, tucked under the rope. The rest of him was in the water, upside-down. The floaties were stopping his weight from tipping the boat but his head was under.
With a cry, Jen flung herself into the pool. She was a terrible swimmer and hated the water, but in a flash she was tearing toward the boat, not even feeling her long dress around her ankles. As she reached the boat she ducked under. She could see his little face through the water, with his arms waving helplessly. She grabbed him and hauled him free of the boat. She could stand easily here so she picked him up and carried him, coughing and spluttering, to the edge.
She sat clutching him tightly, her mind an utter blank, so scared she couldn’t think at all. He was clamped to her and seemed stunned by what had happened, but she could feel that he was breathing normally. With the shock, though, Jen was frozen.
“Mum?” His voice sounded a little strange. “Mum, you’re hurting me.”
Suddenly she realized she was holding him so tight he could hardly get a breath. Tears rushed down her cheeks at the thought of what had nearly happened. She looked at his bewildered face and suddenly, in a moment, she understood that this little life was the most precious thing she had ever held in her hands.
“Mum,” Jason said, frowning slightly. “Why are you crying?”
She smiled at him through her tears.
“Because . . .” she sobbed. “Because you did your biggest trick of the afternoon and . . . I nearly missed it.”
He put his arms around her wet dress and gave her a strong hug.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” he said. “You can look at me again tomorrow.”
Jaie Ouens
Mother Love
I tickled his tummy and kissed his sweet toes;
I powdered his bottom and wiped his wee nose.
I raced him and chased him
(and once I misplaced him!)
I rubbed and I scrubbed
(’til I nearly erased him!)
I shook from his pockets things living and dead;
I entered his room with a shudder of dread.
I tended him and mended him
(and always defended him!)
I begged and I bribed
(when I should have rear-ended him!)
Oh, where is my baby? Which way did he run?
He??
?s now a teen monster at six-foot-and-one!
Carol McAdoo Rehme
The Last Rebellion—Weddings
My mother had a great deal of trouble with me but I think she enjoyed it.
Mark Twain
My son, now an eminent professional approaching midlife, has been mostly successful in cutting that infamous umbilical cord after a lifetime of passionate battles beginning in the playpen. For him, the phrase guilt trip was routine vocabulary when he was barely out of diapers.
“Finish your broccoli; they’re starving in Biafra,” I’d cry.
“You’re trying to give me a guilt trip,” he’d reply.
A product of the rebellious ’60s and ’70s, he caused episodic disharmony in our home as he fended off legendary guilt trips, while challenging established attitudes toward sex and marriage, money, religion, recreation, music, food or appearance. Like my mother before me, I was an overprotective and controlling parent. My son taught me “esoteric” philosophy: holding my tongue and walking on eggs. His battles for independence waged and won, some resentments lingered. The last arena of rebellion and confrontation: wedding celebrations.
Halfway into his twenties, David arrived from his home out of state to attend the wedding of my friend’s daughter and asked if I would hem his new “wedding pants.” I was relieved—and delighted to do so. The invitation had read, “black-tie optional,” and I was skeptical about his owning appropriate clothing. My husband and I wanted to buy him an outfit, but fearful of suggesting anything that could be construed as an assault upon his personhood, we remained silent.