I am currently indulging in this book by Judith Warner, whose subtitle reads, “Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety.” As my college friend from West Virginia used to say, “Ain’t that the truth?!” One passage, in particular, made it all the way to dog-ear status. My system of marking in books – NOT library books, of course – is complicated and revealing. If I haven’t fully committed to a line or passage, I will merely put a dot with my pen in the margin. I prefer to mark with pens, because in my house of kids’ homework there is seldom a sharpened pencil. Next is the dash, which means I may go back and re-read it later, but not necessarily. Another non-committal mark. Then there’s the decisive check. This signals a keeper, but not a quoter. After that is an exclamation point or the word “yes,” (also “No!,” which is actually a positive marking b/c the author stirred me up). I sometimes put people’s initials or names in the margin – as living examples of the vice or virtue described (or, simply, when a memory is triggered). Next is the bold, straight line drawn down the side of the margin selecting an entire paragraph. Definitely quotable material. I used to underline, but I think this makes the text look messy. I might underline just one word … like in Warner’s book I underlined “playpen” because its so controversial.
At the top of my rating system is the star – I gave up smiley faces when a friend teased me after borrowing one of my books. And above the star is the dog-ear. After I finish a book, I go back to the beginning and re-read every page that was dog-eared as a review, of sorts, and to lock in the information or inspiration I received. At the risk of revealing too much … 
… I should add, if I am reading without a pen, I will score the page with a fingernail. I then have to hold the book at an impossible angle while squinting with one eye to be able to find any of those marks.
So, now that you know my system, here is what I dog-eared in Perfect Madness:
“As the psychologists who treated them in the 1960’s knew, depression often is the province of women who make their kids thier life’s work. There’s something sad and scary about losing yourself, particularly when it stands your life’s ambitions on their head.
One woman I spoke with, a painter, whose dreams of a life as an artist had taken a backseat to her husband’s career, tried to articulate this. She was a person who’d pretty much had everything: a wonderful education, a wonderful husband, a nice big house, two children, full-time help. Still, she wondered, over dinner, why her life felt so joyless, where her life had gone, when was the last time she’d had a truly interesting conversation.
Of course, she said, bringing up her children was now her great creative act. It was the greatest creative act anyone could ever hope for really, and she wouldn’t give it up for the world, she said, but “What happens when you look back at these years and say, ‘Where is the body of work?’” she asked, her voice cracking.
There was a long silence then. The molding and making and sculpting and creating of the children’s lives did, of course, amount to a body of work, she said, gesturing elegantly. But then her hands fell flat to her sides.”
Being a runner has helped me with this mother’s dilemma. You see, there is no body of work for a runner either. Like motherhood, running is a transient art. That’s what makes it so beautiful if you ask me. I guess there are medals and trophies and record times to keep, but really the race is its own reward. That same friend from West Virginia also mused, “If I spent as many hours building a house as I have running miles, I’d be living in a mansion now!”
Ahhh, but I believe I DO live in a mansion, friend. All those miles helped build it.
And you can *STAR* that!!
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