*
When one turns to the Internet for mothering advice, one finds a plague of perfectionism. One could be led to believe that mothering means Alice in Wonderland birthday parties; Spanish-speaking nannies; healthy children harvesting perfect blue chicken eggs from the backyard coop; homeschooled wonders who read by age three; flat, tight bellies; happy husbands; cake pops; craft time; quilting projects; breast pumps in the boardroom; micro vineyards of pinot grapes; ballet tights; cloth diapers; French braids; homemade lip balm; tremendous flat pans of paella prepared over backyard fires. What sort of sadist is running these Internets? And more important, how do these blogs not constitute acts of violence against women?
I glimpsed a huge beyond when I became a mother, the enormity of an abyss or the opposite of an abyss, the idea of complete fullness, the anti-death, tiny gods everywhere. But now all that the world wants to hear from me is how I juggle children and career, how I manage to get the kids to eat their veggies, how I lost the weight.
I will never lose this weight.
When one encounters a mother doing too many things perfectly, smiling as if it is all so easy, so natural, we should feel a civic responsibility to slap her hard across the face, to scream the word “Stop! Stop!” so many times the woman begins to chant or whimper the word along with us. Once she has been broken, take her in your arms until the trembling and self-hatred leave her body. It is our duty.
I used to think it was motherhood that loosens a woman’s grasp on sanity. Now I see it is the surplus and affluence of America. Plus something else, something toxic, leaking poison, fear. Something we can’t yet see. But not motherhood itself.
I’d like to post some shots from my own childhood, a version of my parents’ parenting blog, if such an abomination had existed back then. In every photo through the fog of cigarette smoke filling the living room, across the roar of Georges Moustaki blasting his sorrow from the record player at midnight, it would be difficult for a viewer to even locate the children in rooms so thick with adults acting like adults. Here, I found mystery. There was no fear. Here, I was glad to face the night unprotected.
*
In my new career as a writer, I’ve been thinking about drafting a manual for expecting mothers. An honest guide through a complex time no one’s ever properly prepared for. After I became a mom I asked an older friend, “How come you never told me I’d lose my identity when I had a kid?”
“’Cause it’s temporary. And I kind of forgot.”
“Really?”
“No.”
When I sit down to begin my manual I understand how specific my guide is to one demographic. So then, okay, a mothering guide for middle-class, heterosexual women who went to college and are gainfully employed. But once I’ve arrived there, my pen still lifted at the ready, I realize I actually have very little wisdom. So a brochure. Pen in hand. Until I realize that what I’ve learned about being a middle-class, hetero mother who went to college could actually be boiled down to one or two fortune cookies. I write, HORMONES MAKE LIFE. HORMONES MAKE MENTAL ILLNESS. I write, EQUALITY BETWEEN THE SEXES DOES NOT EXIST. And then my job is done.
*
A few days ago I was scrubbing the rim of the upstairs toilet because it smelled like a city alley in August. My phone dinged. I’d received an e-mail. I pulled off my latex gloves to read the message. (Who am I kidding? I wasn’t wearing gloves. I was scrubbing the toilet with bare hands. Honesty. I was probably even using the same sponge I use on the sink, for that area right near the toothbrushes.) The e-mail was from my husband. “Thought you might like this,” he said. It was a link to a list of something called Life Hacks, simple tricks designed to make one’s life easier: use duct tape to open tough lids, keep floppy boots upright with swimming pool noodles, paper clip the end of a tape roll so you can find it easily.
I wrote him back. “Or you could marry a woman and make her your slave.”
He never did respond.
*
I’m not saying men have it better or women have it better. I’ve never wanted to be a man. I’m just saying there’s a big difference.
*
When I swim at the public pool I wear sunglasses so I can admire the hairless chest of the nineteen-year-old lifeguard. I love it that he, a child, is guarding me, fiercest of warriors, a mother, strong as stinky cheese, with a ripe, moldy, melted rotten center of such intense complexity and flavor it would kill a boy of his tender age.
*
Once, I woke Sam in the night. That’s my husband’s name, Sam. “Honey,” I said. “Honey, are you awake?”
“Uhh?”
“I think I’m dying.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Uh-huh,” and went back to sleep.
Presumably my husband likes stinky cheese and the challenge of living near my hormones. Presumably that’s what love is.
*
Another night, also in bed, I woke Sam. I do that a lot. “I want you to agree that there is more than one reality.”
“Huh?”
“I want you to agree that if I feel it, if I think it, it is real.”
“But what if you think I’m an asshole?” he asked.
“Then that’s real.”
“Really?”
“What’s that word even mean, really?” I started to scream a little. “You think we all see things the same way? You think there’s one truth and you know it?”
“Sure. Right? Really?” he asked. Really.
*
One huge drawback to my job as a drug dealer is that, while I grow older, passing through my thirties and into my forties, the other drug dealers stay young. They are almost all in their twenties. Normally, I don’t socialize with the other drug dealers, but one night a group of the twenty-year-olds asked if I wanted to join them for a drink. I almost said no, but then decided, why not.
All the motions at the bar were familiar. It’s not as if I forgot how to go out for a drink. I know how to order a glass of wine. I had no trouble climbing onto a bar stool. After our first drink, some of the young drug dealers disappeared to play pool, some wandered off to greet other friends. Halfway through my second glass, I was holding down the fort alone, watching a couple of purses and cocktails left in my charge. No problem. I didn’t mind a moment of silence. Plus, the young drug dealers can sometimes be stupid, boring.
But then a young man, handsome, curly hair, strong hands, joined me at the table. I started to panic.
This, I suddenly thought, is what it means to go out for a drink. This is the entire purpose. Have a drink, meet a stranger, have fantastic sex all night long. But I didn’t want to blow up my life. I love Sam. I love our life. Still, there was this young man beside me, interested in me, nervous even.