My daughter's Abba came in for the weekend last week, took my girl to the zoo, picked her up after shul next day and let her play all afternoon in the sandbox. Oh, she loved it. She loves hanging out with him. And I'm very glad it all seems to be working out. He might not be very into the nitty gritty, but he's a very loving playmate to her.
On the other hand, what has she done with me this last month? I've not been fun at all. After work we're in the garden. Then I'm cooking and feeding her, reading, going to bed. In the morning we snuggle and read, then back to the chores of getting us both ready and with food for the day.
You know what? She's the best. She has her own watering can, her own little shovel. She wears herself out pouring water (mainly on the footpath and not on the tomatoes, but who cares), carrying the can back and forth from the faucet to the garden. She digs until she's so dirty we have to strip her before we go inside.
At home she makes a game of playing cooking while I cook. We've got Ikea toy cookware, and I taped her hand-drawn oven knobs to the top of an empty shelf. That's her oven. I give her a couple of potatoes, a little water, and she's good to go. Then she stands at the sink and plays washing dishes. Should I feel bad that she loves her tiny broom? That she spends hours pushing around her babydoll stroller, even outside?
When I'm done, we paint pictures and read, dance and talk.
But I'm sorry that, even though I do everything around the home, the "everything" I do is so stereotypically gendered. Sure, I nail things, repair things. But on a day-to-day basis, it's the housework she sees and mimics. Well, everyone should know how to cook and clean for himself or herself, I guess.
We do talk about going to work. "I don't want you to go to work today, Ima," she says. Well, I explain, when I go to work I can get money so we can buy food and clothes. You will go to work one day, too, I tell her. What do you want to do when you go to work? "I want to do fun work when I go to work," she says. She's right.
The other day she asked me if I was going to work that day to get some money. Yes, I said. She told me not to go to work that day. We have enough money, she said.
In today's economy, I know I can't afford anything less than all I've got at work. But I know that my dearest girl is only going to be 2 1/2 once.
Showing posts with label single parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label single parenthood. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Three-Ring Circus
In the first ring you’ve got the little miss. She’s just finished “davening,” which involves placing my watch on her forehead, wrapping a shirt around her wrist, and rocking back and forth. Now she wants, simultaneously, her “moshu” (pacifier) her “daddymilk” (chocolate milk, in honor of her friend’s daddy) and to “brush the teeth.” I am fully aware that such wishes wreck the parallel structure of a sentence. I’m also pretty certain the kid has got a rather heavy oral fixation.
We depart from the eschatological perspective that would allow all three to happen simultaneously, and accomplish them chronologically. And it occurs to me that the phrase “three-ring circus” is redundant.
It’s my lucky day: after reading 10 books, the girl wants to play “sweep the kitchen,” and she’s also amenable to helping me put dishes away. In her babydoll stroller I discover the missing sippycup lid, the missing kiddish cup, my string of pearls, and a letter from my mother. I’m able to make pizza dough in between tasks (we did, after all, wake up at 6 am). Normally I like finishing one task before beginning another. For example, I prefer to empty the dustpan before rolling pizza dough. But today I do what I can.
It’s my morning “off,” which means I have no baby sitter while I prep for class. I must teach a graduate class in the evening (the second ring). And today little miss is coming to campus with me. Our normal Tuesday evening babysitter, our love, has been gone for nearly two weeks seeking clarity, or deciding whether the custody suit, the unemployment and, finally, the current hiring freeze in Israeli universities is going to be too much for him (ring 3, or is it ring three squared? Can you square a ring? oh will the circle be unbroken?)
By 10 am, little miss falls asleep from sheer exhaustion on my back in the ergo as I’m rolling pizza dough. I prep for class in my apron with flour all over the table and tomato sauce spattered. 40 minutes later it's done. And that’s about it for the nap today. My daughter sleeps like Thomas Edison did. About 4 hours every 24 hour cycle.
But her timing is perfect. The people we nanny share with have phoned and are coming over for pizza. They leave an hour or so later, and it’s time to play clean up.
Office hours are held in the presence of little miss, who has decided she wants to “work” too, by which she means press the keys on my laptop. Last time she did that I couldn’t reformat my screen and had to have professional help. Laptop is shut.
The arching of the back. The roar far too mighty to belong to a 22 lb girl-child.
The profuse apologies to colleagues currently holding office hours.
Are there trumpets and flowers falling from the sky? No, it’s just the lovely graduate student, who used to be a kindergarten teacher. She plops down on her stomach and draws pictures with my child using the washable markers she brought with her. I can go sola to class.
The assignment was to translate Rilke’s Duino elegy #1. The one that begins “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels hierarchies?”
Who, indeed? And Rilke didn’t even have children.
We depart from the eschatological perspective that would allow all three to happen simultaneously, and accomplish them chronologically. And it occurs to me that the phrase “three-ring circus” is redundant.
It’s my lucky day: after reading 10 books, the girl wants to play “sweep the kitchen,” and she’s also amenable to helping me put dishes away. In her babydoll stroller I discover the missing sippycup lid, the missing kiddish cup, my string of pearls, and a letter from my mother. I’m able to make pizza dough in between tasks (we did, after all, wake up at 6 am). Normally I like finishing one task before beginning another. For example, I prefer to empty the dustpan before rolling pizza dough. But today I do what I can.
It’s my morning “off,” which means I have no baby sitter while I prep for class. I must teach a graduate class in the evening (the second ring). And today little miss is coming to campus with me. Our normal Tuesday evening babysitter, our love, has been gone for nearly two weeks seeking clarity, or deciding whether the custody suit, the unemployment and, finally, the current hiring freeze in Israeli universities is going to be too much for him (ring 3, or is it ring three squared? Can you square a ring? oh will the circle be unbroken?)
By 10 am, little miss falls asleep from sheer exhaustion on my back in the ergo as I’m rolling pizza dough. I prep for class in my apron with flour all over the table and tomato sauce spattered. 40 minutes later it's done. And that’s about it for the nap today. My daughter sleeps like Thomas Edison did. About 4 hours every 24 hour cycle.
But her timing is perfect. The people we nanny share with have phoned and are coming over for pizza. They leave an hour or so later, and it’s time to play clean up.
Office hours are held in the presence of little miss, who has decided she wants to “work” too, by which she means press the keys on my laptop. Last time she did that I couldn’t reformat my screen and had to have professional help. Laptop is shut.
The arching of the back. The roar far too mighty to belong to a 22 lb girl-child.
The profuse apologies to colleagues currently holding office hours.
Are there trumpets and flowers falling from the sky? No, it’s just the lovely graduate student, who used to be a kindergarten teacher. She plops down on her stomach and draws pictures with my child using the washable markers she brought with her. I can go sola to class.
The assignment was to translate Rilke’s Duino elegy #1. The one that begins “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels hierarchies?”
Who, indeed? And Rilke didn’t even have children.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Odd-Woman-Out
When I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, and for those first three weeks of my daughter’s life, before I had to go back to work, I was just like everyone else, more or less. I was a woman who had just given birth. And that’s all. Like many other women, I spent my waking hours with my shirt unbuttoned feeding the girl. Or trying to get her to burp. I spent my sleeping hours awake, feeding the girl or walking up and down stairs with a screaming colicky bundle, patting her back, or whatever it took, to quiet her down. Like everyone else.
I’d never felt so much woman solidarity was when I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. Everyone from the post-office clerks to the checkers in the grocery store would smile and tell me about their kids. They’d guess the baby’s gender by the shape of my belly. Some even produced detailed horoscopes. The people on the bus talked to me and gave me their seats. The stream of pedestrian traffic individuated itself as random people smiled and talked to me in passing. Even the crowds in a couple of sweaty concerts took the mama in stride: “rock on.”
Babies are the common denominators of humanity.
A goodly portion of half the population has given birth, and the rest know someone who has. And everyone was once a baby. My body may have become a bizarre and ponderous formation I did not recognize, but I was just like everyone else.
But this past week was another story.
This past week I was the odd-woman-out.
Or rather, I felt how my difference caused discomfort and inconvenience to a greater community. For the first time.
What kind of person has to serve papers to Babydaddy in conjunction with her daughter’s birthday party? For reasons I won't go into here, I had no choice. The couple with whom I hosted the party was so uncomfortable with the idea we had to resort to more chancy tactics.
Justice was served out of sight and off-property,in a manner not unlike a Sopranos episode I’m proud to say no one else realized what happened, except the guy who got served. But I'm still queasy.
This week my place of employment was hiring. I sat through brilliant candidate talks that left me speechless. But I was too tired to ask intelligent questions. What does it mean to “queer the generative literary systems”? I'm not sure, but I suspect it’s too late for me to start thinking about doing that now.
Nope, I’m not like everyone else. Not like that nice family who shared my daughter’s birthday. Not like my nice family of birth. Not like my childless colleagues, or male colleagues with children and wives.
Not this week, at least.
Oh, well.
I’d never felt so much woman solidarity was when I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. Everyone from the post-office clerks to the checkers in the grocery store would smile and tell me about their kids. They’d guess the baby’s gender by the shape of my belly. Some even produced detailed horoscopes. The people on the bus talked to me and gave me their seats. The stream of pedestrian traffic individuated itself as random people smiled and talked to me in passing. Even the crowds in a couple of sweaty concerts took the mama in stride: “rock on.”
Babies are the common denominators of humanity.
A goodly portion of half the population has given birth, and the rest know someone who has. And everyone was once a baby. My body may have become a bizarre and ponderous formation I did not recognize, but I was just like everyone else.
But this past week was another story.
This past week I was the odd-woman-out.
Or rather, I felt how my difference caused discomfort and inconvenience to a greater community. For the first time.
What kind of person has to serve papers to Babydaddy in conjunction with her daughter’s birthday party? For reasons I won't go into here, I had no choice. The couple with whom I hosted the party was so uncomfortable with the idea we had to resort to more chancy tactics.
Justice was served out of sight and off-property,in a manner not unlike a Sopranos episode I’m proud to say no one else realized what happened, except the guy who got served. But I'm still queasy.
This week my place of employment was hiring. I sat through brilliant candidate talks that left me speechless. But I was too tired to ask intelligent questions. What does it mean to “queer the generative literary systems”? I'm not sure, but I suspect it’s too late for me to start thinking about doing that now.
Nope, I’m not like everyone else. Not like that nice family who shared my daughter’s birthday. Not like my nice family of birth. Not like my childless colleagues, or male colleagues with children and wives.
Not this week, at least.
Oh, well.
Monday, September 22, 2008
What's Best for My Daughter
Tomorrow morning I was supposed to be sitting with my lawyer, discussing what is best for my daughter, and then drawing up something that Babydaddy and I could agree upon. If we were thinking about what was best for her today, it would be easy: it’s best for her to nap during the day, sleep on a regular schedule, get plenty of fruits and vegetables, read books, play outside, learn to pick up her toys, hug and be hugged, and laugh.
But how am I supposed to know what’s going to be best for her in 10 years? In 15? As anyone will tell you (and they frequently do tell me, especially Babydaddy) that it’s best for a child to have two parents that love her and are part of her life. Two weeks ago, when Babydaddy came down to discuss these issues with me, that’s what he said.
But it had been 8 weeks since he’d seen her. He wants to stay where he is and he see her every 6 weeks or so (because that’s all he has time for, he said). Is this being part of a child’s life? He realizes that he’s "not been prioritizing her right now, but it’s because she’s too young to need him yet.” Is this being part of her life?
He’s been thinking of moving here, so he can see her evenings during the week and sometime on weekends. Of course, he wants to find a wife first. I know that theoretically, this would be best for her. But this is the solution that freaks me out the most.
There’s nothing wrong with where I am. I have a great job, a great community and a great daughter. But staying here means I have just that: a job, a community where I can’t daven until my girl’s old enough to sit still during services, and a daughter.
As supportive as my university is, I have to continue my current schedule: up at 6, play with baby, give her to the nanny and work till 5, play, feed, clean, read with her till 7:30. Put her down to bed and work till midnight. Up at 6. At least until I get tenure.
What kind of life is that?
Obviously, if I take her to Israel, she’s really going to be far away from her Abba. But we’ll have travel funds (and the research need) to spend up to four months in the States every year. He says that longer periods of time are no so convenient for him as weekends. Do I stay here so he can see her 8 weekends a year? Or do I let her grow up with the man I want to marry and who wants to raise her as his own? A man who davens three times a day and teaches her what I don’t know.
She loves her Abba, though she hardly sees him. We’ve got photos of him, and when she sees a photo she says “Abba!” When he's here it seems as if he really loves her. It breaks my heart.
If it were just me, I’d go. My Jewish education is minimal. There I could learn for myself and for her; I’d live in a Jewish country; I’d have that support. I’d live in a place where everyone has children, and children are valued and loved by society. I’d have a job with half the teaching load, and a teaching load that was in my area of expertise.
In my current city, dogs are loved more than children. Honestly. I went walking with a friend and her dog, and for every one person who greeted my adorable child, 8 greeted her adorable pooch. And it wasn’t even a puppy!
How do I know what’s best for baby? How much do we have to take into account what’s best for Babydaddy?
The lawyer phoned tonight and said we would have to reschedule next week. Honestly, I’m relieved.
But how am I supposed to know what’s going to be best for her in 10 years? In 15? As anyone will tell you (and they frequently do tell me, especially Babydaddy) that it’s best for a child to have two parents that love her and are part of her life. Two weeks ago, when Babydaddy came down to discuss these issues with me, that’s what he said.
But it had been 8 weeks since he’d seen her. He wants to stay where he is and he see her every 6 weeks or so (because that’s all he has time for, he said). Is this being part of a child’s life? He realizes that he’s "not been prioritizing her right now, but it’s because she’s too young to need him yet.” Is this being part of her life?
He’s been thinking of moving here, so he can see her evenings during the week and sometime on weekends. Of course, he wants to find a wife first. I know that theoretically, this would be best for her. But this is the solution that freaks me out the most.
There’s nothing wrong with where I am. I have a great job, a great community and a great daughter. But staying here means I have just that: a job, a community where I can’t daven until my girl’s old enough to sit still during services, and a daughter.
As supportive as my university is, I have to continue my current schedule: up at 6, play with baby, give her to the nanny and work till 5, play, feed, clean, read with her till 7:30. Put her down to bed and work till midnight. Up at 6. At least until I get tenure.
What kind of life is that?
Obviously, if I take her to Israel, she’s really going to be far away from her Abba. But we’ll have travel funds (and the research need) to spend up to four months in the States every year. He says that longer periods of time are no so convenient for him as weekends. Do I stay here so he can see her 8 weekends a year? Or do I let her grow up with the man I want to marry and who wants to raise her as his own? A man who davens three times a day and teaches her what I don’t know.
She loves her Abba, though she hardly sees him. We’ve got photos of him, and when she sees a photo she says “Abba!” When he's here it seems as if he really loves her. It breaks my heart.
If it were just me, I’d go. My Jewish education is minimal. There I could learn for myself and for her; I’d live in a Jewish country; I’d have that support. I’d live in a place where everyone has children, and children are valued and loved by society. I’d have a job with half the teaching load, and a teaching load that was in my area of expertise.
In my current city, dogs are loved more than children. Honestly. I went walking with a friend and her dog, and for every one person who greeted my adorable child, 8 greeted her adorable pooch. And it wasn’t even a puppy!
How do I know what’s best for baby? How much do we have to take into account what’s best for Babydaddy?
The lawyer phoned tonight and said we would have to reschedule next week. Honestly, I’m relieved.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
a man, a fish, a bicycle AND a washing machine
In 72 hours I'll be back in the States, reunited with a washing machine, an oven, and a baby bed. These fairly basic items have been missing from my life these 6 months in Tel Aviv. But I'll leave the wonderful man who has been treating my daughter as if she were his own, and who says he wants to spend the rest of his life with me (with us). I don't know how long we'll be apart, or how we'll be back together. It hasn't really sunk in yet. It will in about 70 hours, I guess. But now it all seems surreal and theoretical.
We spent our first Shabbat together, just us. It was beautiful.
It felt like we were a family. And I loved it. I watched myself in amazement--how calm and happy I felt, how secure. I am fine alone with my girl, but this was different. It was like an entire new dimension. It was as if the joy and peace and spirit of Shabbat were magnified and almost tangible among us, and among the friends with whom we davened, and whom we fed. I glowed as my love lifted my daughter during the Torah reading, just as I glow when she wanders in for his davening when he is with us during the week, and he holds her hand without interrupting his prayers.
I do the best I can alone, but in the orthodox world, men and women need each other to make a complete observance. And that's the beauty and pain of it.
Now we both have difficult decisions to make, and they're more difficult because they involve more than ourselves: will Babydaddy let me make aliyah with baby? will my love be able to find work in the USA next year before I can return to Israel (because no matter what happens, I must return for a year)? Will I survive moving to Israel at this stage in my life and career? Will I be able to give this man the children he wants? How will my daughter be affected by all this?
Maybe I'm just in denial, but I feel calm, and I trust. I will move back to the States without any promises--no ring, no dates, no idea when any decisions will be made. I have only the promise that we won't be apart for long.
I am grateful for the year ahead--will we marry and spend the rest of our lives and our shabbatot together? Or will I dig my heels in and make the best life I can for my daughter by myself in the States, with the help of our fantastic community? After these five months of having the possibility of a partner, I'll know what I was missing before. But I also know that I can do this alone, and be happy, if I need to.
We spent our first Shabbat together, just us. It was beautiful.
It felt like we were a family. And I loved it. I watched myself in amazement--how calm and happy I felt, how secure. I am fine alone with my girl, but this was different. It was like an entire new dimension. It was as if the joy and peace and spirit of Shabbat were magnified and almost tangible among us, and among the friends with whom we davened, and whom we fed. I glowed as my love lifted my daughter during the Torah reading, just as I glow when she wanders in for his davening when he is with us during the week, and he holds her hand without interrupting his prayers.
I do the best I can alone, but in the orthodox world, men and women need each other to make a complete observance. And that's the beauty and pain of it.
Now we both have difficult decisions to make, and they're more difficult because they involve more than ourselves: will Babydaddy let me make aliyah with baby? will my love be able to find work in the USA next year before I can return to Israel (because no matter what happens, I must return for a year)? Will I survive moving to Israel at this stage in my life and career? Will I be able to give this man the children he wants? How will my daughter be affected by all this?
Maybe I'm just in denial, but I feel calm, and I trust. I will move back to the States without any promises--no ring, no dates, no idea when any decisions will be made. I have only the promise that we won't be apart for long.
I am grateful for the year ahead--will we marry and spend the rest of our lives and our shabbatot together? Or will I dig my heels in and make the best life I can for my daughter by myself in the States, with the help of our fantastic community? After these five months of having the possibility of a partner, I'll know what I was missing before. But I also know that I can do this alone, and be happy, if I need to.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Mothers without children, single mothers and other freaks
I have no idea what happened to my bashert, to the one I was meant for, and who was meant for me. One thing is sure, though: my daughter was so meant to be that she arrived even if my husband never did. I cannot imagine the world without her in it.
They say there is a whole phenomenon of single orthodox Jewish mothers. I’ve only met one. In shul in Jerusalem I bumped into someone I used to know, and now we both have daughters about the same age. Someone else in that shul is writing a book about single religious mothers. I’d like to read it when she’s done.
I don’t meet many single mothers in general, but those I meet are wonderful. One has a daughter who is about 20—back then, single motherhood was a scandal. She told me she didn’t let anyone at work know for fear of having it held against her. I have to say I identified. I let everyone at my university believe my daughter’s father and I were together. I didn’t want my status to give anyone a reason to judge my work unfavorably. Now I’m less worried, though I am proud of the fact that most people I deal with have no idea I do what I do by myself.
It’s not that I hide it. It’s just that I don’t go out of my way to mention it.
When I was first pregnant and in doubt about what I was doing, my rabbi and my parents all said, “I never thought I’d tell someone in your situation this, but you should NOT marry the child’s father.” It was such a relief.
I was raised in a family that cared about such things. No divorce in it. None of my three married siblings knew (in the Biblical sense) anyone of the opposite sex until their wedding nights. Somehow the model that worked for everyone else just wasn’t working for me. It’s true one of my siblings opined that I should either marry or let a married sibling raise my baby as their own, but they seem to have come around since the baby was born and I adore her.
Being a single mother by chance has its challenges and difficulties, but these are nothing compared to what my friends face.
I’m thinking about women who never had the chance to give birth, though they are, hands down, the most maternal and amazing women I’ve ever met. A Czech friend whose ten-year relationship with a man who kept saying “one day” finally brought her to the end of her natural fertility. She’s an elementary school art teacher. She lives in a country in which it is illegal for single women to seek sperm donors. She has had the opportunity to help her sister raise her nephew, at least. It’s so unfair—I’ve known her since she was 25, and she’d already knitted a whole set of baby clothes just in case.
Two friends currently seek fertility treatment and have had a couple of miscarriages each. One of these friends had been in an abusive marriage, and it took her this long to get over it. Another was struggling with sexual orientation and orthodoxy. I am moved by their courage, their willingness to hope and love despite their extreme fragility and vulnerability.
I don’t think you have to have given birth to a child to understand motherhood. I think there are many women out there who are mothers even though they’ve never borne children. When I think about how I became a mother, without even trying, and how much they are trying, I’m grateful they don’t hate me.
It takes a big spirit to be friends with someone who has what you want with all your heart. And they fill me with awe, gratitude.
They say there is a whole phenomenon of single orthodox Jewish mothers. I’ve only met one. In shul in Jerusalem I bumped into someone I used to know, and now we both have daughters about the same age. Someone else in that shul is writing a book about single religious mothers. I’d like to read it when she’s done.
I don’t meet many single mothers in general, but those I meet are wonderful. One has a daughter who is about 20—back then, single motherhood was a scandal. She told me she didn’t let anyone at work know for fear of having it held against her. I have to say I identified. I let everyone at my university believe my daughter’s father and I were together. I didn’t want my status to give anyone a reason to judge my work unfavorably. Now I’m less worried, though I am proud of the fact that most people I deal with have no idea I do what I do by myself.
It’s not that I hide it. It’s just that I don’t go out of my way to mention it.
When I was first pregnant and in doubt about what I was doing, my rabbi and my parents all said, “I never thought I’d tell someone in your situation this, but you should NOT marry the child’s father.” It was such a relief.
I was raised in a family that cared about such things. No divorce in it. None of my three married siblings knew (in the Biblical sense) anyone of the opposite sex until their wedding nights. Somehow the model that worked for everyone else just wasn’t working for me. It’s true one of my siblings opined that I should either marry or let a married sibling raise my baby as their own, but they seem to have come around since the baby was born and I adore her.
Being a single mother by chance has its challenges and difficulties, but these are nothing compared to what my friends face.
I’m thinking about women who never had the chance to give birth, though they are, hands down, the most maternal and amazing women I’ve ever met. A Czech friend whose ten-year relationship with a man who kept saying “one day” finally brought her to the end of her natural fertility. She’s an elementary school art teacher. She lives in a country in which it is illegal for single women to seek sperm donors. She has had the opportunity to help her sister raise her nephew, at least. It’s so unfair—I’ve known her since she was 25, and she’d already knitted a whole set of baby clothes just in case.
Two friends currently seek fertility treatment and have had a couple of miscarriages each. One of these friends had been in an abusive marriage, and it took her this long to get over it. Another was struggling with sexual orientation and orthodoxy. I am moved by their courage, their willingness to hope and love despite their extreme fragility and vulnerability.
I don’t think you have to have given birth to a child to understand motherhood. I think there are many women out there who are mothers even though they’ve never borne children. When I think about how I became a mother, without even trying, and how much they are trying, I’m grateful they don’t hate me.
It takes a big spirit to be friends with someone who has what you want with all your heart. And they fill me with awe, gratitude.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
It's All in the Name
Taking my daughter to see her Babydaddy and his family is usually fraught with comical but edifying moments.
This time, on the first day of chag, I was seated with baby, Babydaddy, Aunt, and Grandmother at a pre-paid kosher restaurant when we were joined by a friendly, young couple. Aunt took it upon herself to introduce everyone by name. Then she got to me.
“This is my brother’s daughter, and this is
[awkward pause]
the mother.”
I will never get used to anyone referring to me and my daughter, from whom I have never been parted for more than 6 hours at a time, in these terms.
She’s MY daughter, and he is “the father,” if you want to be technical about it.
But I bit my tongue, as I do when Grandmother and Aunt talk about how much my daughter looks like her father.
Being “THE mother” is totally different than being so-and-so’s mother. “The mother,” seems purely biological, stripped of any kind of social relationships or community.
It feels a little like a slap, or perhaps a very limp, clammy handshake. After all, I used to have something of a friendship with this woman. How else could she have phrased it?
When it was time, the young couple said goodbye to each person by name until they got to me. “Good-bye,” they paused, clearly racking their brains for my name.
“The mother,” I prompted.
Quite honestly, I don’t usually think of myself as “A Mom” (an appellative I’ve never liked) any more than I think of myself as “the mother.” I’m my daughter’s mama, but to everyone else I’m just me (albeit, with a sidekick).
Yes, my daughter is the most significant aspect of my being right now, but when she totally consumes me, as she did when I was pregnant, I’m not fit for human society.
When I was four months along, I was introduced to a super-smart man who uses his powers for good and not for evil. As we crossed the street, he placed his hand on my back to warn me of a speeding car that appeared from nowhere. I FREAKED out.
Too full of my daughter, even though I wasn’t yet showing, I couldn’t bear to have a stranger touch me.
Not that I want to go around having strangers grope me, but it’s good for me to have a little psychological space.
In the meantime, and speaking of names, I am exercising other aspects of my identity as a guest host for the Burlesque Poetry Reading series at Café Rouge in November (the regular host is studying at Drisha this year). I need a good stage name.
As timely as it is, I’m guessing “Shmita” won’t quite do. Neither will “The Mother.” Maybe something more along the lines of Gigi or Lisette?
This time, on the first day of chag, I was seated with baby, Babydaddy, Aunt, and Grandmother at a pre-paid kosher restaurant when we were joined by a friendly, young couple. Aunt took it upon herself to introduce everyone by name. Then she got to me.
“This is my brother’s daughter, and this is
[awkward pause]
the mother.”
I will never get used to anyone referring to me and my daughter, from whom I have never been parted for more than 6 hours at a time, in these terms.
She’s MY daughter, and he is “the father,” if you want to be technical about it.
But I bit my tongue, as I do when Grandmother and Aunt talk about how much my daughter looks like her father.
Being “THE mother” is totally different than being so-and-so’s mother. “The mother,” seems purely biological, stripped of any kind of social relationships or community.
It feels a little like a slap, or perhaps a very limp, clammy handshake. After all, I used to have something of a friendship with this woman. How else could she have phrased it?
When it was time, the young couple said goodbye to each person by name until they got to me. “Good-bye,” they paused, clearly racking their brains for my name.
“The mother,” I prompted.
Quite honestly, I don’t usually think of myself as “A Mom” (an appellative I’ve never liked) any more than I think of myself as “the mother.” I’m my daughter’s mama, but to everyone else I’m just me (albeit, with a sidekick).
Yes, my daughter is the most significant aspect of my being right now, but when she totally consumes me, as she did when I was pregnant, I’m not fit for human society.
When I was four months along, I was introduced to a super-smart man who uses his powers for good and not for evil. As we crossed the street, he placed his hand on my back to warn me of a speeding car that appeared from nowhere. I FREAKED out.
Too full of my daughter, even though I wasn’t yet showing, I couldn’t bear to have a stranger touch me.
Not that I want to go around having strangers grope me, but it’s good for me to have a little psychological space.
In the meantime, and speaking of names, I am exercising other aspects of my identity as a guest host for the Burlesque Poetry Reading series at Café Rouge in November (the regular host is studying at Drisha this year). I need a good stage name.
As timely as it is, I’m guessing “Shmita” won’t quite do. Neither will “The Mother.” Maybe something more along the lines of Gigi or Lisette?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Being Alone
My daughter and I spent a wonderful Sukkot with dear friends from Texas who now live in Chicago.
Yes, the bridge of song from each of the 150 sukkot in the neighborhood (my friend’s children counted them). Yes, the identical crayoned pictures adorning the walls of each sukkah detailing where we came from.
Despite it all, today, back in DC, I feel utterly alone.
I know everyone feels alone sometimes. In her new home in Chicago, my friend is gracious and her life is full of love. But she says sometimes she feels the weight of constant caring for her three energetic, imaginative, delightful children. Husband putting in long hours. Close friends, family in Texas.
Mostly she must miss herself. The self she can’t attend to right now because she’s caring for everyone else. I imagine it waiting patiently for her in an unseen corner of the house.
The man I used to love feels lonely. It was bad timing for romance, but he’s too wonderful to lose by giving up a friendship. He’s between countries; he’s got a job in Chicago he couldn’t turn down, but he longs for home, for Israel.
He builds symbolic bridges: He bought property in Tel Aviv, which I would guess, helps alleviate the greatest measure of existential angst. And his work, much in demand, gives him intellectual connections he craves. He’ll find his love when he returns home, he says. When he’s settled again.
So there are different levels and types of being alone. Naturally, to me, mine feels the purest and most intense form. True, I have a daughter. But I don’t have a partner. I don’t own a home. There isn’t a “when I’m settled” or “soon.”
The future is now for me. Maybe that’s the loneliest feeling there is. One misses the future, just as one sometimes misses the past.
Without a daughter one can feel like the purest observer. Touching the world without leaving a trace of oneself in it. So that loneliness becomes a virtue, a gesture.
Which is great for photographers and poets.
Not so good for mothers, what with all the ways we're supposed to ensure continuous presence. We're responsible for the perpetuation of the species, the tribe, the demand for theraputic psychologists, just to name a few.
I'm trying to make a home in now while remaining open to what is in store. Even if what is in store is just more of right now.
Yes, the bridge of song from each of the 150 sukkot in the neighborhood (my friend’s children counted them). Yes, the identical crayoned pictures adorning the walls of each sukkah detailing where we came from.
Despite it all, today, back in DC, I feel utterly alone.
I know everyone feels alone sometimes. In her new home in Chicago, my friend is gracious and her life is full of love. But she says sometimes she feels the weight of constant caring for her three energetic, imaginative, delightful children. Husband putting in long hours. Close friends, family in Texas.
Mostly she must miss herself. The self she can’t attend to right now because she’s caring for everyone else. I imagine it waiting patiently for her in an unseen corner of the house.
The man I used to love feels lonely. It was bad timing for romance, but he’s too wonderful to lose by giving up a friendship. He’s between countries; he’s got a job in Chicago he couldn’t turn down, but he longs for home, for Israel.
He builds symbolic bridges: He bought property in Tel Aviv, which I would guess, helps alleviate the greatest measure of existential angst. And his work, much in demand, gives him intellectual connections he craves. He’ll find his love when he returns home, he says. When he’s settled again.
So there are different levels and types of being alone. Naturally, to me, mine feels the purest and most intense form. True, I have a daughter. But I don’t have a partner. I don’t own a home. There isn’t a “when I’m settled” or “soon.”
The future is now for me. Maybe that’s the loneliest feeling there is. One misses the future, just as one sometimes misses the past.
Without a daughter one can feel like the purest observer. Touching the world without leaving a trace of oneself in it. So that loneliness becomes a virtue, a gesture.
Which is great for photographers and poets.
Not so good for mothers, what with all the ways we're supposed to ensure continuous presence. We're responsible for the perpetuation of the species, the tribe, the demand for theraputic psychologists, just to name a few.
I'm trying to make a home in now while remaining open to what is in store. Even if what is in store is just more of right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)