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My aunt shared with me a favorite Carl Sandburg
quotation, ”A baby is God’s opinion that life should go on.” I think Sandburg is right
about this. Babies are transcendent. They are better, finer somehow than either of their
parents. They are the embodiments of eros having escaped the imperfection of their parents and
emerging into the world ready to try again. Children, however, are another matter all together.
Children are walking, talking “I told you so’s.” Your mother’s
“You just wait until you have children of your own,” is not an idle threat, it has a bite. Literally.
I believe Nietzsche intended the eternal return of the same as a personal pronouncement, and we’ll
revisit that later. (Ahem, note philosophy joke) But I also suggest that it has strong
intergenerational applications when it comes to mothering. The eternal return of the same – the same
pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything immeasurably small or great in your life.
Everything immeasurably small or great in your life must return to you in the same succession and
sequence. The same succession and sequence as experienced by your mother. And her mother.
Here’s the thing, though. Like Cassandra and the priestesses of the ancient oracles our mothers’
can see our futures but can only communicate in cryptic sayings like “A little birdie told me,” or
“I don’t ever want to see you doing that again,” or “Some day you will thank me for this,”
or “Shannon, don’t set that on fire.” OK, the last
one wasn’t so cryptic, but you know the ones I mean.
Why must truth be enigmatic?
Because it is a being, I think, and not a thing. It is not something that can be given, but rather
something that unfolds through time and relation. Elizabeth Stone once said that “Making the decision
to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your
body.” What she neglected to mention is that your heart will more often be hurtling than walking
and that it will most often be wearing something, or pierced somewhere, of which you do not approve. So
while watching the children of their hearts rush headlong into the maelstrom mothers must gesture at future understanding
with the present knowledge that their daughters are not ready to receive the truths they have learned even were they able
to express them clearly. You have to be in the right place at the right time to understand the truth.
The moment a child is born,
the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is
something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh
Here you are, wondering how you got in your current position
(and believe me there is some interesting history on modern birthing positions.) You are doing the most
physically challenging thing you have ever done. Your sole focus us focus is getting an additional living being out
of your body and just at that moment when you give birth, thank you very much, she steps up. Oh, there
were shades of her during your pregnancy. She’s been trying you on for size.
And if you really listen to her voice, it’s not completely unfamiliar although it will take you a while to place
it. You just collided with your future. While you sit there mildly concussed she helpfully
slips around and directs your attention to the baby. Everyone approves of this move. The woman who existed
and the mother who never did begin the long process of cohabitating the common ground of your identity.
It has never been a comfortable arrangement for me.
I love my children. Even though, as you will find out if you choose to read on, they are a lot of
trouble and have no appreciable skills. Unless you count the fanny dance as a skill. I am not, somewhat
regrettably, one of those women that flourishes in motherhood. The goddess in me has fallen.
She’s propped up on the hearth, but she doesn’t belong there. The "me" in
me and the mom in me have gotten so far apart that their communication is like the messages we used to try and send down a
string between two tin cans. The tin cans are my conscience and my desires. The string is the thin thread
of common personality which barely but inextricably binds us together. And that’s on a good day.
I’m a rag tag soldier embattled in an attempt to raise three decent people. The terrain is
unfamiliar, I’m outnumbered, and they are smarter and faster than I am. The mom in me is really letting
me know it. But let’s face it – an army of perfect mothers couldn’t raise these children
the way my inner mom thinks it ought to be done. I would not lie. They are impervious
to advanced degrees. They honestly do not care that I hold a PhD in philosophy.
The only time it interests them in the slightest is when I
draw logic problems on the driveway in sidewalk chalk. One day their dad arrived home me to find me scribbling
proofs frantically on the asphalt. He claims I was muttering, “I think therefore I am,” repetitively
and under my breath but I’m pretty sure this is dramatic flair on his part. There I was, on my hands
and knees explaining to our then five year old son the law of the excluded middle using triangles and circles when Jim
walks up behinds us and says, “Honestly I don’t know if this is cute or a desperate cry for help.”
Honestly I don’t either.
Luckily there is some kind of "meta-me" that sees the humor in this. She also sees the potential
demise. Meta-me poses the me and mom-me a question: “Comedy or tragedy?”
That is the dilemma that drives the
paradox that is my life. Then, the answer: “You decide."
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