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*BEST of mamazine.com* Dispatches From A Displaced Mama: (part 11)
One Mama's Experiences After Katrina

As with shoe styles, I firmly believe that no one parenting style—color, size, or shape—fits all despite what the experts may tell you. This isn't to say that we should not, upon occasion, heed the advice or recommendations of others. It is also not to say that we can't experiment, from time to time, with new brands or colors; life is dynamic, after all, as are we. What I am saying, quite simply, is that the choices we make as parents may not always suit or appeal to everyone. For mothers, however, as those who have historically assumed the ethical burden of responsibility in childrearing, the reality of our differences is often difficult to bear.

Early in the week my son Dylan developed a virus known as "Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease." The illness is the universal dread of childcare centers and schools as it is highly contagious and can take up to seven days to run its course. Its primary symptom is painful little sores that develop, initially, in the mouth and later, although not always, on the hands and feet. Such an illness can, naturally, wreak havoc in the lives of working parents and their children. In our current situation, it posed a mere inconvenience. Dylan was exposed to the virus through a new buddy at his Montessori school and within four days developed sores in his mouth and scattered little bumps in the palms of his hands. His mood was otherwise good, his energy high. But because of the risk of contagion, we elected to keep him home from school for the rest of the week.

Because I am teaching online and had a few more pressing responsibilities that week than my husband, Chris, he agreed to watch Dylan for the four days during which Dylan was out. Although he was tired at the end of each day, Chris assumed this responsibility calmly and with few complaints, for which I was enormously grateful. Better yet, by the end of the week, Chris remarked that, to his surprise, he had enjoyed the exclusive and extensive time he had spent alone with Dylan, especially knowing that, soon after we return to New Orleans in December, he will resume full-time work and a schedule that will afford him with few such opportunities. I found myself simultaneously pleased and slightly envious at his disclosure; suddenly I was aware of how absorbed I had been in my own work that week, and how little time I had, in fact, spent with my son. Suddenly, I could hear the somber ticking of an ominous metaphysical clock, visualize the days slipping by, feel, with an acute sense of loss, the passage of time during which I was estranged from my baby, the very wellspring of my existence, and I was plagued by remorse.

In this vulnerable state, I went to see my therapist. Like many of my friends, during the past two months since evacuating for Katrina, I've consulted, periodically, with a psychologist who is doing pro-bono work for Katrina evacuees. As one who is training to become a counselor, I am a big proponent, given the right circumstances and the right "fit," of therapy, for both the mind and body. So, I did not hesitate to check in from time to time, this semester, to monitor my emotional health. This particular session, however, evolved into something that was more about the often-contentious battleground of mothering styles than the health of my psyche.

After describing my week and the ambivalence I had experienced in wanting to work while missing my child, my therapist, who had just come off of a five-year stint of stay-at-home motherdom with two young sons, boldly asserted, "Your first responsibility is to your son." "Well, yes," I consented, willingly, "Dylan is my first priority, but I do, also, have to do my work." "You choose to do your work," she interrupted, "As parents, we make all kinds of choices. But your son needs you now. And there's no one who can better raise him, better understand him, better handle his illness, or his moods, than you." "Well," I hesitated, aware that I was becoming defensive, "my husband did a great job this week." "And I commend him for that!" she interrupted again. "But your son needs both of you." I could not exactly disagree with her; Dylan needed me, of course he did, as I needed him. Yet, I explained to her, I also needed my work outside of him, was not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. Even as a child, my role model was the pretty and endearing, yet seriously working, Mary Richards. Only, I always imagined, in my perfect universe I'd be Mary Richards with a kid. With the help of my husband, I'd have it all. I tried to explain this to her; the centrality of both work and family, my sense that my personal fulfillment could only enhance my effectiveness as a mother. "You can always work later. Get another degree later," she responded tersely. "But you will never get back this time with your son. You don't get a second chance." I was beginning to sweat. "He's been in daycare—a good daycare—full time, since he was eight months old," I told her. "And it works for us. Both Chris and I need some time for ourselves" "Then why have children?" my therapist shot back.

So, here it was again; that same old furious question, cast, like so many stones, from woman to woman. Why have children if you aren't willing to be there twenty-four seven? Why have children if you aren't able to happily sacrifice your identity? Why can't you give up yourself, I have suffered and so should you! As the veil of professionalism fell away, we sat, my therapist and I, locked in the familiar stand off between stay-at-home and working mothers. At this point, I realized, we were both far too invested in our chosen paths and too self-conscious about how things might have been different, how like or unlike our own mothers we were, how sad we sometimes felt, how anxious we were that other women were doing it otherwise and that we, somehow, were missing the boat. My therapist suddenly flushed, aware I suspect, of her own less than therapeutic engagement, and hastily added, "I'm sorry. This is an issue I am passionate about." "I am, too," I answered, managing to smile, in response to which she smiled tentatively back. We talked for a while longer, moving to other, less provocative subjects. As I left, she gave me a list of children's books she thought I might enjoy reading to Dylan. Books, she claimed, that were imaginatively written and challenging intellectually. Books to stimulate me, as well as him. I took this list and thanked her. It seemed to me to be a gesture of reconciliation. A compromise from across intensely contested borders. Driving home I decided that I would make a point of visiting the used bookstore in my neighborhood, maybe later that week.


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column added on 2005-11-20 :: ::

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