April 12, 2010

i'm trying to talk to you/or: why saturday night cocktail party chatter is difficult for the stay-home mama

THE SCENE:  saturday late afternoon.  the three small children are not at school.  they are at home:  demanding: food and drink, help in the bathroom, help busting up their fights, help getting to pbskids.org, help finding socks, help finding something to do; laughing like maniacs and then screaming at each other; dancing to alvin and the chipmunks, lady gaga and queen, all at full volume; running inside and out; skateboarding on sidewalks; stepping on legos and screaming; accidentally kicking each other in their stomachs; kissing each other wetly; refusing to practice their instruments; playing ball in the house and breaking vases; and speaking in their loudest, bossiest voices in order to exercise control over the others.  HUSBAND/FATHER is at home today, too, but is going jogging or checking his e-mail, fighting with the children over practicing their instruments, asking what the lunch plan is, practicing his photography technique or going to the office real quick for a cord he forgot there, frequently and throughout the day.  it is so loud and messy in the house WIFE/MOTHER believes her skeleton has shattered and the slivers are poking through her skin from the inside.  she knows this too shall pass but that doesn't help because that is about thirteen years out and then she will probably be grieving the silence but right now:  the splinters are poking.  it hurts and yoga for relaxation is out of the question because she can't get down with that chi finding stuff and anyway please:  if she got down and did the upside down dog thing in her living room they'd all find her and jump on her screaming with laughter and that would be that; a studio or gym is ridiculous because when?  and though her family is rich in noise they don't have a lot of spare coins jingling in their right-side-up pockets; and if she went outside into the garden for some quiet come on man, they follow her everywhere.  she knows it's all good, it's all because they love each other and the noise is shrill happiness but her bones are poking through and there seems nothing for it and since no one seems to notice it's all good.

CHORUS:
it is so loud around here
she thinks her skeleton has shattered and
slivers are poking through
this too shall pass doesn't help
she will regret the silence then
right now:  poking poking.
yoga is out for reasons she doesn't have time to list, anyway please:
it is all fine.  her bones are poking through but
no one seems to notice so
it's all good.

----------------

WIFE/MOTHER to HUSBAND/FATHER:
sometimes it is so loud around here
that for my sanity i fear
slivers are poking through my skin
jabbing the painful knowledge in:
i do not appreciate the noise
and soon they will be gone
and i can rise at dawn
and do the upside down dog (even though i hate yoga)
in my living room or wherever i want and no one will knock me over laughing hysterically.

am i crazy?  i feel a little coo-koo
and you know i know it too-too
it's all about the love
but i cannot rise above
The Bones.  Poking.  Through.  My.  Skin.

___________________________

HUSBAND/FATHER to WIFE/MOTHER:

roses are red
violets are blue
the kids are loud
but we don't live in a shoe.  it could be worse.

-----------------------------------------

NARRATOR:
there once was a mom from nantucket
whose kids were so loud she said fuck it
she got in the car
and drove long and far
til she missed the noise of nantucket.


then she came home again.



*****************
i was at a cocktail party last spring.  i was the only stay-home mom there in a big crowd of attorneys, and analysts, and economists.  there was this one german economist guy there who was a guest at maryland from paris, for the semester, and we were having fun talking, and then his american wife came up and joined us.  you know her--young, leaving him because she couldn't stand the scene in paris and needed to get back to the usa and nothing would hold her back from what she wanted--not even love--currently working as an aide for a senator.  perky, well traveled, smart.  she asked me, as everyone american does (i have found that european people tend to be able to discuss stuff, rather than jobs), what i do.  i answered that i stay home with the kids.  she said:

that must be fascinating.

i snorted.

she blushed and said:  what, you don't like it?

i said: of course i like it.  but it is not fascinating. 

she left to get a drink.
******

it was a conversation i didn't like.   to focus on whether i was rude or not is to miss the point, though i'm not sure what the point is.  is it that motherhood is sacrifice and to imply it is fascinating denigrates the grand sweeping gesture?  or that after a day like that day, no one would have any brain cells left?  that giving up what you love for something else you love is sometimes really amazing?  any suggestions?