songs of experience

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Lizzie is home sick today.
Today, my writing day.
My writing day.

SO, instead of a blessed morning of reading, ruminating, and wRiting, I am answering (through gritted teeth), “How do you spell ‘plasitc pony’?” (for her birthday list).
“P-L-A” I say slowly … then blurt out, “ess-tee-eye-see” and she says, “Slower, Mommy, please.”
But I don’t want to go slower.
“Try drawing the pictures of what you want for your list,” I say, hoping to stall for time.
(Please, God, just let me finish typing this senten …
“How do you spell ‘Horn’ - for my bike?”
“I told you to draw a picture of it.”
“But I don’t know how. Can you help me?”
“No”
“Why?”
“because Mommy’s busy writing.”
“But I want to write too.”
But it’s my turn! I want to scream.
It’s my turn to write; today is my writing day.
Not yours. (I stopped short of sticking my tongue out at her).

None of the books told me it would be this hard. None of the other mothers ever told the truth. Not even my own mother. If I asked her, now, why she never told (why she kept the secret all those years) she would say with a sly smile, “Well, you never asked.” But was I supposed to ask, at age 4 (my Llzzie’s age), at 10 - at 20? I plan to tell my own daughters the brutally honest truth, so they won’t be blindsided, “Being a mother is the hardest thing you will ever do - be prepared to lose your own life for a long, long time.”

How many times have I heard, “Oh, it goes by so quickly.”?
No, it doesn’t. Not when they’re home sick and you want to get something done - anything done. Not when it’s your writing day.

You can imagine my delight (relief? I am not alone!) when I randomly discovered Jane Lazarre’s The Mother Knot on the library shelf. Published nearly 30 years ago, this book reveals the timeless realities of the sacrifice of motherhood - which, I contend, should be an issue of parenthood in 2006. She explains how psychically debilitating it is for mothers to stay home day after day, year after year (for some of us) … with no end in sight:

And psychic health? That was something you dragged around with you like a ball and chain, which prevented you from lying down on the floor as you wanted to, just lying down and screaming and crying forever, or at least until someone somewhere in the background you heard a responsible voice say, “She has fallen apart.” It has defeated her. Put her in a hospital, an excellent one, of course, where she will get the best of care, be listened to, allowed to get well.

Then strong arms would lift you and carry you away to somewhere near the ocean, where breakfast was served every night at eight and dinner each morning with the sunrise: nothing would be ordinary. And several times a day, some kindly person would say, “Now, dear, tell me about yourself. When did all this begin?”

Instead, the ball and chain pulled on your ankles until they were raw and an adult-sounding voice insisted, “Get up, the baby’s crying.”

I might have enjoyed that summer of routine and silence if I had been sure that it would end, that at some point in the well-organized future, I would heave a sigh and say, “Ah, well, I must get back to work.”

“Mommy, how do you spell ‘giant trampoline’?”