On Sunday afternoon, Nick, Ruby, Frank, and I are shopping for Halloween costumes at Target—our idea of quality family time—when I realize that I’ve officially become my mother. It’s certainly not the first time I have sheepishly caught myself in a “Barb-ism” as my brother calls such moments. For example, I know I sound like her whenever I warn Ruby that she’s “skating on thin ice” or that “only boring people get bored.” And I see myself in her when I buy something I truly don’t want—whether a dress or a six-pack of ramen noodles—simply because it is on sale. And when I judge someone for forgetting to write a thank-you note, or driving a car with a vanity license plate, or, God forbid, chewing gum too enthusiastically in public.
But as I stand in the costume aisle at Target, and tell Ruby no, she cannot get the High School Musical Sharpay outfit, with its jeweled, midriff-revealing halter and tight gold lamé capris, I know I have traversed deep into Barb terrain. Not so much because of our shared feminist sensibility, but because I promised my daughter that she could select her own costume this year. That she could be “anything she wants”—which is exactly what my mother told me when I was a girl and then a young woman. When what she really meant, time and time again, and apparently what I meant in this instance, was, “Be anything you want, as long as I approve of your choice.”
I cringe, remembering all the conversations I had with my mother last year after I told her I was quitting my tenure-track position at Wellesley College. I knew she’d have something (a lot) to say about it as I was used to her giving me her unsolicited two cents. In fact, my brother and I often laugh about her visits and how many times she begins her sentences with “If I might make a suggestion”—which is simply a gentle launching pad for her to then go on and tell us how we are doing things all wrong. If I might make a suggestion: perhaps you should lay Ruby’s clothes out the night before—it would really avoid a lot of morning arguments. Or, If I might make a suggestion: you should probably allocate one command spot for all the incoming mail and paper. I’ve found that it really cuts down on clutter. Or my personal favorite, If I might make a suggestion: you need to try to relax and create a soothing environment when you nurse the baby. I think Frankie senses your stress.
Yes, Mom, he most certainly does sense my stress. And so does everyone in the house—and the world at large. Which is why I am quitting my job.
This, of course, was not an explanation that satisfied her. Instead, she was full of more “suggestions.” Such as, Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry. Your marriage will suffer. She went on to cite Betty Friedan, who called staying at home “the problem that has no name” and Alix Kates Shulman, who suggested that rather than quitting their jobs, women should simply refuse to do 70 percent of the housework.
“I just don’t see how you can give up all your dreams,” she said in her ardent way that conjured her bra-burning, flower-child days. “Everything you worked so hard for. So that you can sit around in your sweats, folding clothes and cooking pot pies.”
“It’s not about that,” I replied, wondering if she could somehow see me through the phone lines, standing at the stove, making bacon and black truffle macaroni-and-cheese from a recipe I had just clipped from a magazine. “It’s about spending time with Ruby and Frank.”
“I know, honey,” she said, “I know that’s what you believe. But in the end, you will have sacrificed your soul.”
“Oh, puh-lease, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes, “don’t be so dramatic.”
But she went on, just as fervently, “And before you know it, those kids will be in school all day. And you’ll be sitting around, waiting for them to come home, peppering them with questions about their day, living your life through them—and you will look back and regret this decision.”
“How do you know how I’ll feel?” I said indignantly, just as I did in high school whenever she tried to, in her words, raise my consciousness. Like the time I tried out for cheerleading and she scoffed, in front of all my cheerleading friends no less, insisting that I should be “on a real team” and not “jump around for a bunch of boys.”
“Because I know you . . . I know this won’t be enough for you. Or Nick. Just remember—Nick fell in love with the young woman who followed her dreams. Her heart. You love your work.”
“I love my family more, Mom.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Sometimes it feels that way,” I said, thinking of the time I came home to find our nanny squealing with delight over Ruby’s first steps. And the countless other things I missed—both big benchmarks and quieter moments.
“What does Nick say?” she asked. I could tell it was a trap, a test with no right answer.
“He supports my decision,” I said.
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said, with just enough of a caustic note to make me wonder for the hundredth time what she has against my husband—or perhaps all men other than my brother.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenged her, knowing that she was viewing this the way she viewed everything—through the lens of her own divorce and her hatred of my philandering father.