I have decided to try to write something weekly, during this, my first full year of full-time mothering. The idea came to me as I was running. I was thinking about the last few weeks of summer vacation, and anticipating the beginning of the school year in an entirely new way, since this time I won't be going back. I thought of my friend's words when I had discussed with her my inner turmoil about whether I should return to my teaching job or resign to take care of my three kids myself. She was whole-hearted in her support of resignation, but she added, "If you can keep writing, I think you'd be happy. Just to do something to keep your brain alive." Sometimes that advice seems like true wisdom-- writing will keep my mind from turning to mush, writing will help me perserve some kind of identity beyond that of "mom." Other times, usually when I collapse into bed exhausted at the end of the day, I wonder if I'm crazy to add one more thing I "have" to do, as if taking care of four kids under three and running a household will not be overwhelming enough.
And then there is the question, of course, of what I will write. I admit rather sheepishly that I'm inspired by the fictional Carrie of Sex in the City. Granted she doesn't actually have to write her columns; she just quotes a few select lines towards the end of every episode. But if she can find something to say every week about being single in New York, I figure the experience of being a stay-at-home mom in a world in which it sometimes feels that almost every other mom works ought to be just as rich.
I'm worried, though, that my "material" will too closely resemble the laundry list of resentments and complaints that can cycle through my mind on any given day. I don't want my "column" to just be the lastest manifestation of my old carpool buddies' venting sessions. On the other hand, I wonder if my writing will be something like a family photo album-- infinitely interesting to those intimately concerned but often deadly boring for anybody else. I mean, right at this moment I could gripe either that I'm so tired from yet another early morning of nursing babies, or rattle on about how Sylvia is so darn cute smiling at me and wringing her little hands as she sits in the middle of the floor pulling toys out of a basket.
That's the thing about writing, though. When I think about writing something, I often think that what I have to say could be said in about two uninspired sentences. I mean, "Sylvia is so cute!" or "I'm so tired!" is not really all that riveting to anyone but my mom. But just watching her sitting there, grinning, it occurs to me that just this moment could be the beginning of quite a few reflections. For instance, why do I put her hair in a barette so that it stays out of her eyes instead of cutting it as I surely would a boy's? Don just came in and said, "She looks so feminine with that in her hair," and it's true. So if gender is truly a social construct that we create, as a certain camp of academics insists, we really do start constructing it very early. Then again, what difference does it make to her, really, if her hair's in a barette or not? At this age, not much. Surely her girl-ness is something more innate.
"I'm so tired!" turns out to be even richer, once I start mining it. I'm tired because last night we were out late at our friends' house-- there's a piece there about community, I'm sure, and how hard yet essential it is to maintain social connections even while tredding the swirling waters of parenting young children.
I'm also tired because Sylvia wanted to nurse at twenty after eleven last night, and then before six this morning, so I spent much of the morning feeling grumpy that I was short on sleep and me-time-deprived, when Don was up until God knows what hour on the computer and didn't roll out of bed until after nine. My resentment was, as usual, groundless; it wasn't Don's turn to get up with the kids, and it is certainly not his fault that the day before, when it was his turn, I could not get back to sleep after Sylvia woke to nurse at just after six. Still, I am the one whose sleep has been interrupted by nursing every night for the last eight and a half months. Sometimes all that night nursing just feels like part of the parcel of motherhood. I may be sleep deprived, but I also get to enjoy the special bond that nursing creates, and I am able to soothe my children quickly and easily even when they are at their fussiest. Then again, those hours I spend nursing are just one tiny piece of being a mom. They can't matter; even women who don't nurse are just as much moms. But somehow the little insignificant pieces come together to mean something. There's a reason my two and a half year old son is adamant in his desire for "Momma" to do it-- to read the books, or play with the animals, or take him to the gym. His preference for me over his father right now is not because I'm me, or because I'm female. It's because I'm his "Momma." We both feel that truth deeply, and yet it's a slippery, confusing thing. Does a man raising a child alone or with a partner fill that role of mother just as completely? Or is there something more animal about it, a maternal instinct in women not readily replicated? Does Don need an elbow when his daughter cries because he just happens to be a heavier sleeper, or does being a woman-- and a mom--make me attuned and and thus responsive to her cries in a way that he can't be?
No, there will be no shortage of material, I'm sure. The other resources-- time, energy, inclination-- will be the challenges. And then there's the question of who my audience will be. Am I writing just for the family members and friends who kindly read my little pieces and profess to enjoy them? Or do I maintain the charade of a "column," pretend that I've really got a readership and a deadline so that I'll carry through with this idea? Do I, for example, assume that my readers are familiar with me and the characters in my life, or do I explain things as if to a total stranger? Hmmm... those questions, I assume, will probably answer themselves, if I really manage to muster the will to do this. I should, I think, send this out tonight, so that I plant the seed of expectation. Otherwise I think the idea will go the direction of so many other good intentions.
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