MAMA-ING

For a long time, I have wondered about women who love being mothers; who talk about their children (and blog about their children) ad nauseum. Women whose first, middle, and last sentence has something to do with their children. What the child has said or done or learned or just overcome. What movie or book their child absolutely loved. What sale they caught and all of the items they were able to snag up at 75% off. What trip they're going to take their child on next. I have even found myself admiring these women at times, most of whom have had three or more children, who seem to be in absolute love with being a mother, who never seem to tire or bore of it, who seem to have it all right and in perspective, who seem to be not even the slightest bit concerned that there is a world beyond the sandbox; who essentially seem as if they were created to be nothing else besides a mother.

I am not one of those women.

There are days that I feel like a military recruit, 18 years old, who calls home to Mom after receiving his first head shave, and whispers below earshot of the rest of the troops, "Mom, I want to come home. I changed my mind. I don't know what I'm doing here." There are days that I absolutely feel like a woman I met yesterday. This woman has just moved here from North Dakota, off the reservation where she has lived all of her life. Squinting against the sun, she whispered to me "I miss the reservation so much. It's just too confusing out here for me." I know her pain. There are days that I truly worry about myself. I worry that I will get twenty years into this thing (motherhood), kids successfully off in college and I will wake up and not even recognize myself; I will not even know the woman in the mirror -- who has skipped way too many meals, slept too little, forgotten too many vitamins, not learned the four other languages she had intended to learn and cannot, at times, even remember her own telephone number. I fear, honestly, that I will age without having done those personal enrichment things I've always wanted to do; without having had enough time to really enjoy life because for years I've been pouring more out than I've been taking in.

Of all the women writer's I know, Anne Morrow Lindbergh has said it best in her outstanding book, Gift From the Sea:

With a new awareness, both painful and humorous, I begin to understand why the saints were rarely married women. I am convinced it has nothing inherently to do, as I once supposed, with chastity or children. It has to do primarily with distractions. The bearing, rearing, feeding and educating of children; the running of a house with its thousand details; human relationships with their myriad pulls--woman's normal occupations in general run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life. The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence. It is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life; how to remain balanced, no matter what centrifugal forces tend to pull one off center; how to remain strong, no matter what shocks come in at the periphery and tend to crack the hub of the wheel.

The 33 million dollar question. And who among us has the answer?

One of the things I lack is a close network of creative friends who are also mothers. The creative friends that I do have either don't have children or are dealing with empty nest syndrome. Well, my nest is full so I can't relate to them and most often they can't relate to me. The few creative friends that I do have are far away and because they are taking their destinies into their own hands (as am I) most are not able to fly around the country visiting and are equally unable to call on the telephone often. (We artists have to keep the expenses low if we're going to do our art). Though I love receiving email, let's face it, there are times when you need a sister fried (or brotherfriend) to sit down next to you with some Dunkin D's and listen to your plight. And understand. There are times when you want to feel human and not electronic.

I had thought of starting a collective, a mother/artist group, where we women (both married and single) could come together to raise our children and nurture our art collectively. A small group that would agree to exchange childcare or other services that would enable each of us more time to pursue our work without worrying how much it's going to cost or will I make it back in time before the fees kick in. Let's just say there's a painter in the group who doesn't necessarily need childcare but who's got an opening she wants to go to and is pressed for time. Dinner's got to be made and the kids have to be picked up from school. No problem. If you're part of a collective, you call up one of your member mom's and ask if she can pick up your kids that day in exchange for you watching hers one evening while she writes. The members come together (say once a month or every other month) to know each other, fellowship, break bread, talk about our work. Members agree to exchange services...not usurp others' time. Members have contact numbers, emergency numbers and all pertinent information relative to the child they're taking care of. The germ for this idea came from a brotherfriend who is writing a book about Mumia Abu-Jamal and traveled to San Francisco to collect some material essential to his book. He stayed in a private home of women who started a collective much like what I'm describing. These women were activists and artists, committed to both their work and their children. They created the collective for many of the same reasons I've said. But that's San Francisco and I'm on the East Coast where folks are as conservative as apple pie. Where folks are proud to be Americans. You get my drift.
So there is little art. And there ain't much activism. And there ain't many folks like me, who say, hey forget about that master's degree, I'm writing the book I've always wanted to write. I'm living the life I want to live.

Soo....here I am today, worrrying about me. Worrying about this whole task of mothering. Wondering at times, if I've got what it takes. Tired as all get out. Kid 1 awake and alert the minute the sun rises till the time it sets. Washing clothes, preparing meals, keeping the house functional all the while trying to balance my art and give them what they need and deserve. And since I know there are those who will bark, "Why are you complaining?? You should be glad to be a mother." I will simply say up front, I'm complaining because I'm human, cause I've got the right to do so and if you don't like it, you can click your back button till you get to the page you were on before you arrived here.

Nuff said.

And to those who understand, thanks for dropping in.

Be well. Be Love(d).
---a.