I Am Not Superwoman

I have always held myself to high expectations--probably unreasonably high, and having children only increases what a woman expects of herself whether she works in or outside of the home. Women of current living generations are subject to the histories of our mothers and grandmothers. We hold ourselves to standards of cleanliness when life and nutritional needs create cycles of meal making, diaper and linen changing, keeping clean towels for all in the household and setting standards for dressing, hair hygiene and so on. If you add up the minutes of the day those seemingly small tasks take, those seconds of effort turn into hours of labor.

Every mother figures out how to do that, making choices about what to bring to standards of near perfection and what to hide in closets, storage spaces or garages when others come over. At some point we figure out our compromises and the things about which no compromise is possible. This is but one example of the daily labor of mothers and wives who ensure the household has something for all to eat, that cars have gas in them, that dry cleaning is picked up, there is cash on hand for things that need to be purchased, mail is handled, and others from that household at least appear as if they have a mother or wife.

I never compromised on my daughters' clothing. When they were babies, they were bathed and clean, as children, dressed tastefully (though they may disagree with some of my choices:), and as teenagers, allowed the creativity to dress themselves as long as (and these are my words. . .) nothing looked "hoochie". I am proud that my daughters held themselves to those standards and do so today.

I may have compromised on certain mealtimes and cooking is not a great passion of mine. Still, dinner was our time to come together. We sat around our kitchen table, whether we were having a home cooked meal or taco bell. One time Amanda told a friend of mine who was making pancakes from scratch about the wonderful microwave pancakes her mom made. I was pretty embarrassed, but guess since she liked them, in retrospect it was okay. As the girls became teenagers, it got harder to find those times when we could all come together, but all else failing, Sunday evening was our time to share a meal. A kitchen table is important, and we made Christmas meals, gifts, and wrapped presents on it, created celebratory moments with cakes or bowls of fresh fruit and made time to be with each other.

I also tried never to compromise on showing up for the kids' various events. This meant being there for flute and oboe competitions, making sure they had homespun Halloween costumes, going to school open houses, parent-teacher conferences, swim meets, plays, holiday concerts, dance concerts, LaCrosse games and every other kind of childhood activity that meant something to my daughters. Some of my favorite memories are driving them at five a.m. to swim practices four days a week. Each of them somehow decided to be chatty in the car with me with their respective turns at that activity. It taught me that when I had one daughter alone in the car, they would talk about themselves and the things that concerned them. This place of conversation continued to be a way to find one or the other alone at times and to give each of them my undivided attention at least some of the time. I used to take detours and drive the long way around. They probably noticed, but never complained because I think they enjoyed it too.

There were times I had to compromise. I missed an oboe concert once and had enlisted my friend Phil to be there for Steffie so that she would have someone in her audience. I enlisted the help of my friend Chris to watch Stephanie while I taught a class when I was in grad school. She persistently asked him to take her to the drinking fountain, which had a coke machine next to it. At about the fifth request, she asked again for him to take her and lift her up; he gave her a look that showed his displeasure at her repeated requests, and she replied, "well if you buy me one of those sodas, you won't have to lift me up anymore".

I can't remember if he complied, but it was apparently what she had wanted all along. She always loved vending machines and what seemed like the magical appearance of a treat for a few coins. Steffie was sick one day, so I left her for an hour in our apartment in University of Utah student family housing. She was young to be left alone, but it was a fairly safe place and my friend Joni was going to be there all morning two doors down to check on her. I left Joni's phone number with Steffie, who called her. She sat silent on the line, and Joni asked, "what are you doing?" Steffie replied, "watching Flipper". "Do you need anything, Steffie?" Steffie answered, "got any cheese?". Those are the funny and heart wrenching episodes that stand out in the mind of this mother more than any time I could be there for my daughters.

Amanda came home one day with news that she had "won" a bunny. This beautiful little german lop eared fuzzball had hopped toward her in a circle of kids sitting indian style. It was fate and she was to have that bunny. I consented and the bunny came home with us and traveled through several states from Chicago to Utah in the car with us. Amanda named her Sophie till we found out the bunny was a boy because of his demonstration of natural male habits on top of a small teddy bear that lived in the cage with him. We changed the name to Sophocles, but never call the bunny anything but Sophie. It seemed like when other kids came over, that was the time that Sophie went into his embarrassing display of natural instincts. I never said too much about it and the kids just laughed.

Another time Amanda came home one day with a cow's lung. I am not kidding--a real, red, straight-out-of-a-butchered cow's body. They were studying biology in her third grade class, and she brought home this red-stained, thick clear plastic bag with the lung inside it. It was about twice the size of a rib roast and ugly as hell. She was supposed to dissect it and at the time I was shocked and taken aback at what she was doing at school because she seemed happy with her teacher. I called my friend Barb, who had a background in biology to see if she might come and help. She came over that evening and took Amanda through the technical lessons of dissection and parts of the lung. Apparently Amanda's teacher lived in a rural area of town with farm animals and clearly I had NOT been paying enough attention to what she was doing in school. I didn't like it and called the teacher the next day to ask her about it and politely request that she consider the age of my child. Amanda seemed unaffected by it, but she always did. She was the bravest child I had ever met. While she may have had fears and pain, most often as a young child, she behaved as if nothing phased her.

I can remember one important time when she gave me enough information to go to bat for her. Amanda was showing the space where she had lost a tooth to a girl her age(that I swear to this day was a bad seed if there is such a thing, and I am convinced there is). Tiffany took her fingernail to it and pressed hard. I was so angry that she could have done such a thing that I talked to the after school care teachers and Tiffany's mother. Tiffany has probably wrought havoc on all she has met by this time in her life, but I am so proud that both of my daughters have learned to be thoughtful and caring people, and Amanda a wonderful mother.

There is nothing worse than watching your child suffer the more painful growth experiences of childhood, and there are some times it is necessary to step in. On the other hand, there is nothing more rewarding than seeing your children rise to challenges and feel proud of themselves--making a work of art, a wooden step stool, a ceramic turtle, their first sewing project, being in their first play, riding that bike without training wheels, riding a scooter, skating down the sidewalk on roller skates, helping pitch a tent, taking a five mile hike with you in the middle of nowhere, roasting a marshmallow, having their art displayed publicly.

Having had two very different children, Steffie needed little nudges into a world toward other kids her age, and Amanda needed mysterious things that often came to me after-the-fact, and as well, the reins pulled on her radical willingness to run into adulthood. When she was two, five, ten and fifteen, she spoke as if she was an adult herself. She carried on conversations as if she were any adult's equal while still having the experiences of childhood all around her. When she learned to ride a bike, it was in her grandparents' cul-de-sac on a little green stingray her grandfather had bought her. She didn't start like most kids with wobbly fear and panicky feet. She started behind the neighbor's hedges at an incline only to appear at top speed toward the end of the cul-de-sac with mother, grandparents and sister hollering at her to come back.

That is one of the most indelible imprints in my memories of Amanda's childhood--fearless, speedy, wind blowing her hair as she steered the bike, looking back at all of us as she waved happily, somehow confident that her hands on the bars would take her where she needed to go while everyone else held their breath till she turned the bike confidently back to safety. My view of Amanda has always been one of awe for her courage, strong-willed independence and apparent fearlessness.

Each of us has our strengths and challenges. We also have areas of necessary compromise and lines drawn where no compromise is advisable. At the same time, we are subject to human limitations, what we know at the time and individual growth and change. My daughters helped me grow and I witnessed theirs, always hoping I was guiding them insightfully, allowing them to be who they were and never forgetting the imprints of their lives on mine. I miss them every day. I love them every day. I want the best for them every day. I hope they are happy every day. And I am not sure I will ever let go of the maternal inclination to save them from suffering or hope they understand my dedication to them. In the end, though, I would like them to know that as "super" as they are that they too have limitations, will have to choose their compromises wisely and draw lines for themselves where no compromise is acceptable. Happy Easter, Amanda and Steffie.