Month: October 2009

This week there was a package on our front porch. And it was for me! Look what I got!

When I am grown to man’s estate
I shall be very proud and great,
And tell the other girls and boys
Not to meddle with my toys.
—Robert Louis Stevenson

I collect antique tea cups. This summer, while visiting Newport, Rhode Island, I bought this “Votes for Women” cup and saucer. It’s a replica from the estate of Alva Vanderbilt Belmont. Starting in 1909, after forming the Political Equality League, she held Suffrage Dinners at Marble Palace to raise funds for the Suffrage movement. Dinners were served on this china, made by John Maddock and Son.

I don’t keep this cup and saucer with my others, in part because it’s not antique and, in part, because I like it on the windowsill, above my kitchen sink.

I love that I’m able to stay home with Sophie. We’ve given up a lot to make that happen. And honestly, financially, it makes sense. Working as a managing editor and paying for daycare is, sadly, about equal to my staying home and freelancing, purely from a financial standpoint. Still, it’s been an adjustment—a huge adjustment—an adjustment I’m still still dealing with.

Beginning in high school I’ve worked. I’ve babysat. I’ve waited tables. I’ve stocked lipstick in the middle of the night. I’ve sold glow-in-the-dark necklaces at a theme park. I’ve called college alumni asking for money. I’ve worked in college dining halls. I’ve interned. I’ve written articles. I’ve edited magazines. I’ve managed magazines. I’ve been required to show up somewhere at a particular time wearing a particular outfit with like-minded adults for most of my life. When I was a little girl, I remember constantly being asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” (My answer then was Vanna White.) I, perhaps wrongly, viewed education as a means to a job, not a means to personal growth. Work, largely, defined me. It was a huge part of who I was and, in many ways, who I am.

I realize I’m lucky. Personally, I consider my work now considerably more difficult—yet also considerably more rewarding—than any other job I’ve held in the past. And if given the option I wouldn’t change a thing. But yet. I still sometimes long for adult interaction. I long for the opportunity to carry a leather purse and wear high heels. I long for the immense gratification that comes with seeing a project through to completion. I long for someone more experienced than me occasionally looking over my shoulder, marking my work in red or, better yet, saying “Good job.”

But then I think about what I would miss. The chance to interact with my daughter on a daily basis. The ability to wear jeans and a T-shirt, makeup optional. The gratification of seeing Sophie succeed—and seeing my own successes as a mother—as she grows. And although she’s not more experienced than me, she lets me know when I’ve screwed up (think tantrum as a result of a missed nap time). But she also lets me know when I’ve succeeded (think squeals of laughter or my watching, in amazement, as she says “Mama kiss” and leans forward to kiss me).

I struggle most while doing the mundane—dirty laundry, dusting, dishes. Although, I must admit, some chores I once thought mundane have become enjoyable—hanging laundry on the clothesline on a beautiful summer day, successfully tackling a new recipe, folding impossibly small socks.

Years ago I honestly think I would have been appalled at the suggestion that I would be a stay-at-home, or, perhaps more accurately, a work-at-home mom. But I learned something surprising (to me) in the many women’s studies classes I took in college. Feminism isn’t about having a career. It’s about having a choice. Ms. Belmont wasn’t fighting for women to have to vote, rather for women to have the choice to vote. It’s about being able to admire the working mother and the working father and the work-at-home mother and the work-at-home father and the stay-at-home mother and the stay-at-home father equally.

And so my “Votes for Women” tea cup sits on my windowsill above my sink as a reminder, while I’m doing the mundane task of washing dishes, of the fantastic fact that because of Ms. Belmont and Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott and Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Blackwell and Amelia Jenks Bloomer and Carrie Chapman Catt and Kate Chopin and Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem and Maureen Dowd and my grandmothers and my aunts and my mother and so many others that I have a choice. And instead of longing for the supposed greener grass on the other side (which I so often do) I need to be thankful I have a choice and embrace that choice and realize that I’m exactly where I want and need to be.

Still, I want more. On days when I’m on deadline I want more time with Sophie. On days when I have nothing due I want more writing work. I want to be with Sophie every second and yet I want someone to publish my book and send me on a month-long book tour. I want and want and want. And in some ways, I think that’s OK. In a, perhaps screwed-up way, I think that’s a form of ambition. But I’m also working on being thankful for what I already have and always thankful for the women who have worked so hard to allow me to have it.

“I’ve yet to be on a campus where most women weren’t worrying about some aspect of combining marriage, children and a career. I’ve yet to find one where many men were worrying about the same thing.” —Gloria Steinem

It rained almost the entire time Grandma and Papa were here. But I still convinced them to play outside with me.

I would find Papa and say “rain, rain” and “water, water.” He ALWAYS took me outside. And he was so patient with me while I played and played and played in puddles and the water collected in the fire pit.

Papa also dislodged all the toys (mainly finger puppets and too-big balls and, oh yeah, a piece of an octopus from a pop-up book) I stuffed down my Busy Ball Popper. Finally! It worked again! (I may or may not have two finger puppets stuck in it right now. Mom’s working on it.)

We also went to the zoo!

Nini and Papa came over to visit. They all watched while I did my puzzle. It was a lot of pressure. I’m really good at matching colors. I’m not so good at putting the puzzle pieces exactly in place.

I also showed off my bracelet-wearing trick for them.

“I don’t care how poor a man is; if he has family, he’s rich.” —Dan Wilcox and Thad Mumford, M*A*S*H

This was Sophie’s second year at the Preble County Pork Festival.

But it was Jill and Marty’s first!

In addition to my grandma Gebhart, Jill and Marty, we also had lunch with my uncle Roger and aunt Ellen …

Tom and Katy …

my crazy Dad …

and my mom.

A huge pork chop.

Although Sophie could eat the food this year, she instead drank milk and enjoyed being passed around the table.

Grandpa taught her how to bang her fist on the table. I believe they’re demanding pie.

A peek at pigs.

A walk around the tents.

Petting a baby pig (and of course, wearing the “I petted a pig today” sticker).

And oh boy. A sandbox full of corn.

There were some tears when we dragged her away from this.

Sitting on a bench with Nini helped.

As did sitting on the hearth (and jumping off) at Grandma Gebhart’s house.

Next year maybe she’ll eat a pork chop. (Unless, of course, Uncle Kyle convinces her to become vegetarian.)

“There is poetry in a pork chop to a hungry man.” —Philip Gibbs

A couple Fridays ago Aunt Katy and Uncle Tom came into town for the Pork Festival. That Friday they spent ALL DAY at my house! We drew chalk pictures.

And played in the tent.

Uncle Tom let me wear his shoes.

Aunt Katy made the silliest of faces.

I miss them. I randomly say their names all the time, especially when I’m supposed to be napping. Ka-TY. Tom. KA-ty. TOM. You know how sometimes you just think of certain people and you don’t know why? That happens to me all the time. And when that does happen I shout out their names! That way Mom and Dad know I’m thinking about all those people, too.

“Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.” —Thomas Fuller

One of my favorite things to do is open all the drawers (that I can reach) in Mom’s jewelry chest (that my Great Uncle Skip made!) and pull out all the bracelets. I pick two and put one on each arm. Then I walk around the house with my arms up like this so they don’t fall off. But don’t—and I repeat don’t—stretch the stretchy ones. It’s hard, really hard not to because you can make them stretch so much. But that’s the problem. You eventually stretch them too much and then they break and beads go flying everywhere! (I find this hilarious. Mom, however, does not.) Thankfully my grandma knows how to fix broken bracelets.

“Not on one strand are all life’s jewels strung.” —William Morris

Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
when I see the pale
stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.

I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilit meadows,
with only this one dream:
You come too.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, from First Poems, translation by M. D. Herter Norton