I've been giving a lot of thought to the feeling of apathy lately, or maybe not apathy per se - but distance, from myself, from my children, from my life. I have no doubt that these feelings stem from my recent state of limbo, but they've always been there in the background, maybe even from the beginning - whenever that was.
I adore my children. I admire the way they learn things, the way they express themselves, the way they scrunch up their faces and say, "So, does that mean..." They are amazing creatures, my two girls, and as they grow into themselves and need me less, I admire them all the more.
I love my life. I have an amazing partner, someone of whom the phrase "we're in this together" can be spoken with sincerity. A man who is willing to move halfway across the country just so I can get an English degree (English? really? so what, you'll teach?) is not something one finds everyday, let alone one who comes with the kind of kitchen skills mine's got. I wish for no other.
Still, even as I love what I have, anticipate what the future will bring and make my way through each day as it presents itself, I often find myself thinking, meh: the mental equivalent of a shrug.
Of course this is not without its effects on me, on my family, on my parenting. One thing that I have found myself thinking about recently is the idea of "having it all," of living a life that incorporates aspects of self-nourishment that simply mothering can not provide, but of course also having the deep joy that comes with the work of mothering. This came up in a conversation I had with a friend, and then again in a post by Amy at Milk Breath and Margaritas.
What does it mean to have it all? Can it be done? Maybe. But the point is this, that in every moment is a choice and as each choice is made, all other possibilities fall away in invisible layers.
In the afternoon: Should I play a game with my children, or hide in my room, hope (assume) they're okay and read a book?
In the evening: Should I put my children to bed early and do something for myself, or read with them until they fall asleep on my shoulder?
In the morning: Should I get up and make breakfast for the little darlings, or lie half asleep in bed and listen to them push chairs across the floor as they get it themselves?
The problem with having it all seems to be that the answer to all of the above questions is yes. Yes and yes. And of course that's impossible. Each choice presents itself with some coy appeal, whether it is the soothing simplicity of the everyday, or the thrilling guilt of a stolen moment. So is having it all really possible? Well, yes and no.
Yes.
No.
It depends.
Last night I read a short story by Lorrie Moore, called People Like That Are the Only People Here: Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk, about a couple whose baby develops cancer and their experiences in the pediatric oncology (peed onk) ward. The mother in this story (called only the Mother) is naturally sarcastic and maintains an emotional distance from her child which felt familiar to me. This is not to say she wasn't devastated by the Baby's cancer, or that she didn't do everything in her power to protect the child, whom she clearly loved, but the kind of jokes she feels guilty about making once the baby's cancer is discovered are the sort of jokes I make all the time. (Oh yes, Freya is the Evil One, just listen to what she said yesterday...)
I don't think there's anything wrong with having a sense of humor about life, in fact, if I can enjoy a humorous story about a baby with cancer, well, there's really no limit to my depravity is there? What if there isn't? So what? After all, I take pride in the fact that I am the sort of mother who allows - encourages really - the mummification and ceremonial burial of Barbie dolls. In my mind I am the sort of mother who sips dry martinis at cocktail parties and laughs lightly about the charming or idiotic things her children do. Never mind that I don't much care for dry martinis, that's not the point.
Whatever social shift has occurred in the last decade or so to create parents who are so involved as to actually accompany their little darling to his first job interview (gag me, please), has left me clinging to my apathy. (A contradiction if there ever was one.) Who says that children with ultra-involved parents are better off than those with parents who nurture both themselves and their children? Are they the same ones who imply that I should feel guilty if I choose to spend a Saturday hunched over my computer, barely hearing my daughter call my name until she sneaks up behind me and yells directly into my ear?
The distance that I feel (or put) between myself and my life, is that a coping mechanism? A safe guard against over-involvement? Or is it just the way I make it work - a natural by-product of trying to have it all: if I give a fuck, will it be too hard to handle the truth when it turns out I can't have everything after all?
Of course I care. But I can't care deeply, passionately all the time, that's just not me. (It sounds utterly exhausting for one thing.) Of course I feel that surge in my chest when I look at my daughters, notice them in a fresh way. And of course I push myself to feel nothing as I slump on the couch and idly listen to them fight without bothering to intervene.
Is this what having it all means? Maybe. Yes and no. It means loving what I have, and trying to have more, but without sacrificing myself and without sacrificing my children. It means making it work, and even though on the surface saying it out loud sounds like a contradiction: it means making compromises.
Photos, from the top: 1. Matilda's Barbie Art, created last year, 2. Freya with marker and a sour face, 3. Freya, having her cake and eating it too, 4. Matilda last summer in Bar Harbor, Maine, 5. The girls in dress-ups and with Legos
