What is it you really want? my husband asked me one night. We were laying in bed, books in hand, but before either of us could turn a page (or, more accurately, press a button since we were actually holding e-readers, which leads to a much less romantic opening line), I had told my husband, not for the first time, that I was restless. Unhappy. Dissatisfied.
When somebody asks you what you really want, it’s best not to think about it too much. Thinking about it too much leads to dishonesty. Thinking about it too much leads to confusion. You want to say, Money, but you’d feel guilty saying that in the face of the horrors that plague our fellow humans, so you say, Peace. But you don’t mean it at that moment, you mean, Money. So don’t think about it too much. Be honest and immediate when your husband asks you why the 15 minutes before you go to sleep has turned into philosophy time and not reading time. (Or, given his choice, something-else-altogether time.) And don’t think too much about it.
Success, I tell him.
That is what I want. I want success. I want achievement.
My husband gently pointed out that I had just been part of a widely-recognized national campaign during election time. That I had been on the radio and on tv and in newspapers and websites. How many people get to do those kinds of things? He asked. That, he said, was success. I should be proud.
And I was. Proud that I helped create something that got big. Really big. Even if only for a few short weeks. But I had a hard time seeing it as success. It was fun. It was no big deal. I came up with three little words, and it caught on. I also come up with clever words that help sell millions of dollars worth of products every year. That’s not success. That’s a job. Most people have one.
You’re a little hard on yourself, my husband said. He may be right. I think I may have a disasssociative-success disorder. I recognize it in everybody but myself.
But it’s out there. And I want it. I’m just not sure what it is.
***
5.16.2011
Protection
The thunder cracked, louder this time. The storm was getting closer.
I paced the confines of our small living room with my daughter in my arms, bouncing her, leaning my cheek against her soft, fragrant head. Shhh, shhh, it’s ok, I whispered. It’s ok. The mid-day sky was black.
The phone rang. I jumped. Hello? It was Chris, checking to see if the rain had started yet. At the television station where he worked downtown, the storm was in full force. He called it apocalyptic, and I laughed a little, nervously. I told him the baby was scared. We hung up. I was scared. More thunder. I wrapped my arms tighter around my infant daughter, as though the bricks, the glass and the walls would not be enough to keep her safe from the impending storm. It would be me. I would protect her.
The television was on the 24 hour news station; I was half-listening to the storm reports, the newscasters practically gleeful in their delivery, revelling in the chance to broadcast the summer’s ‘big one.’ I looked out the window and up at the darkening sky. More thunder. The clouds were moving quickly; the young tree in our front yard swayed helplessly. After a few minutes, I heard the change in the newscaster’s tone. They were back to the other story now, the one that had dominated the news for weeks.
She was still missing.
I knew her family. We had lived mere blocks from each other while I was growing up, and I had attended highschool with her step-siblings. My younger brother had been her friend. She was still missing, vanished from her own yard one night. There were no new developments but the police now suspected foul play. I watched, holding my 3 month old child, as the mother of the 25 year old missing woman, my old neighbour, stepped in front of the cameras. During the press conference, she thanked the public for their overwhelming support. She thanked the search teams. She thanked the police. She called her beautiful, missing, child, everybody’s daughter.
Tears streamed down my face. The thunder seemed to be getting louder. I held my baby closer. I would protect her.
The rain finally began to fall from the charcoal sky. I turned once again to the window, the baby asleep now against my shoulder. Her milky breath tickled my neck. It had only been a few months since she had arrived, yet her weight in my arms was my anchor, and I wondered how I had ever remained planted to the ground without it. Without her. How empty her arms must feel, I thought of the mother on the news, how she must long to feel the weight of her child in them once more. Her obvious sorrow assailed my body, moving through me like a wave, and I cried. I didn’t know it would be like this, I thought. The pain, the uncertainty, the brute force of emotions.
The press conference being held by the mother of a missing young woman assumed now to have come to some harm, seemed to be wrapping up. She once again thanked the public. She once again referred to child affectionately as everyone’s daughter.
I realized, just three months into my own uncertain tenure as a mother, that the truth of motherhood was now clear - one mother’s child was every mother’s child.
And one mother’s pain was every mother’s pain.
The baby stirred. I turned off the television and waited for the storm to pass.
***
I paced the confines of our small living room with my daughter in my arms, bouncing her, leaning my cheek against her soft, fragrant head. Shhh, shhh, it’s ok, I whispered. It’s ok. The mid-day sky was black.
The phone rang. I jumped. Hello? It was Chris, checking to see if the rain had started yet. At the television station where he worked downtown, the storm was in full force. He called it apocalyptic, and I laughed a little, nervously. I told him the baby was scared. We hung up. I was scared. More thunder. I wrapped my arms tighter around my infant daughter, as though the bricks, the glass and the walls would not be enough to keep her safe from the impending storm. It would be me. I would protect her.
The television was on the 24 hour news station; I was half-listening to the storm reports, the newscasters practically gleeful in their delivery, revelling in the chance to broadcast the summer’s ‘big one.’ I looked out the window and up at the darkening sky. More thunder. The clouds were moving quickly; the young tree in our front yard swayed helplessly. After a few minutes, I heard the change in the newscaster’s tone. They were back to the other story now, the one that had dominated the news for weeks.
She was still missing.
I knew her family. We had lived mere blocks from each other while I was growing up, and I had attended highschool with her step-siblings. My younger brother had been her friend. She was still missing, vanished from her own yard one night. There were no new developments but the police now suspected foul play. I watched, holding my 3 month old child, as the mother of the 25 year old missing woman, my old neighbour, stepped in front of the cameras. During the press conference, she thanked the public for their overwhelming support. She thanked the search teams. She thanked the police. She called her beautiful, missing, child, everybody’s daughter.
Tears streamed down my face. The thunder seemed to be getting louder. I held my baby closer. I would protect her.
The rain finally began to fall from the charcoal sky. I turned once again to the window, the baby asleep now against my shoulder. Her milky breath tickled my neck. It had only been a few months since she had arrived, yet her weight in my arms was my anchor, and I wondered how I had ever remained planted to the ground without it. Without her. How empty her arms must feel, I thought of the mother on the news, how she must long to feel the weight of her child in them once more. Her obvious sorrow assailed my body, moving through me like a wave, and I cried. I didn’t know it would be like this, I thought. The pain, the uncertainty, the brute force of emotions.
The press conference being held by the mother of a missing young woman assumed now to have come to some harm, seemed to be wrapping up. She once again thanked the public. She once again referred to child affectionately as everyone’s daughter.
I realized, just three months into my own uncertain tenure as a mother, that the truth of motherhood was now clear - one mother’s child was every mother’s child.
And one mother’s pain was every mother’s pain.
The baby stirred. I turned off the television and waited for the storm to pass.
***
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