A Mother's Diary by Alexandra Lynch

Thursday, June 30th

Hi All!
I'm taking another hiatus from the Internets and also from my diary.
Warm wishes,
Alex

Friday, June 24th

Oh, Lola

You cried when I told you
that I can't make art for a while --
"Maybe when you're in high school,
I'll start again" --
which sent you running to the
big grey chair for comfort.
You balled yourself up and wept.

If only you knew
that it's better this way,
significantly, markedly, substantially
better.
You'll miss my art
("But I love your art so much!" you protest)
but I miss me when I paint.
I miss me as a forgiving, patient,
empathetic mom,
as a get-down-on-my-knees-and-
kiss-your-and-Lucy's-bodies,
arms, legs and elbows
because I must,
because I love.

Me as painter and mom
is an entirely different proposition,
one that I needed to explore one last time.
(Sort of like trying gluten again
only to be proved right in my conviction
that it dogs my digestion.)

When I try to mom and make art, too,
my fascinating, ebullient children
morph into obstacles and bothers,
things (things!) that stand in the way
of my creative work.
It's an astoundingly different dynamic,
not susceptible to nuance or even muscle.
It just is.

When I try to do both
I get through the day rather than live it
(let alone expand into it).
I work to clear time for art,
to escape into my own mind.
This is by its very nature an exclusionary exercise.

Lola, you love my art
and I do, too,
but I can't let you or your sister
into that domain,
not really.
It is mine alone.
But as your mom I want to share.
I want to invite you into my world,
to keep the door open
to life.

And so here I am,
redefining my world,
definitively shunting aside the art
in favor of apple pies
(I just found a recipe
for a potato one that I yearn to make)
and runny noses
and amateur vegetable gardens
and botched potty training
and barely tolerated play dates
and hugs oh those delicious long hugs
and who knows what
because that's the point.

Lola, you might think my world shrinks
when I don't make art.
But you're wrong.
You're with me
and there's nothing bigger than that.

Sunday, June 19th

They keep hitting me.
Not on purpose,
not even consciously.
Which is part of the problem.
I think.
I don't know.

It's as if they don't know
that my body exists
as its own entity
with its own integrity
(and nerve endings).
We are still one,
according to them,
no boundaries, no separation of the
here and there.

So walk on my toes,
go ahead.
Clock me in the mouth
during a particularly awkward dismount
from the monkey bars
with me spotting as requested.
And don't even flinch --
don't register the moment,
because nothing, apparently, has happened.
Except that my mouth hurts.

And I can't seem to educate them:
Hello! Here is my body,
and yes, it feels pain,
Lucy! That hurt.
Please don't do it again.
She is mute in the face of my stern reproach,
not even offering an easy "Okay"
because (again, I think) she's trying to puzzle out
the what --
What exactly did I do?

So I keep absorbing the blows,
allowing myself to be honest in the moment
but the accumulation of careless physical contact
has my blood boiling a bit.
Just another thing they didn't tell me
about the job of being a mom.
(Along with being sick all the time, them and me.)
I am not a doormat, though the scenario
might bring one to mind.
The motherly role I more relate to is Queen Mother.
(Or queen bee?)
A bit regal but not too standoffish,
well-respected but not feared,
an important, powerful and very seen woman.

Would you ever hit a queen?

Thursday, June 16th

P.S. I made art today! No calls from school about tummy aches, no workmen
showing up a day late or a day early... just me, a pair of vintage shoes, some
paper, pen, pencils, magazine, newsprint and glue. I've attached a passable pic here.

Thursday, June 16th

The tyranny of the hug.
How to explain the concept --
it sounds impossible
or just plain not right.
But I've been experiencing it lately.
It's very real.

I'm cooking. Imagine my hand
up a chicken's ass.
(I think I've done that just twice
in my life.)
Lola enters the room,
sweeps her arms wide,
kicks her chin up
and speaks loudly in my direction, "Hug!"
What to do?

It's a lovely thought,
that goes without saying.
I love her, and I dearly love
her hugs.
But, um, I'm busy?
Am I permitted to demur
a five-year-old's expansiveness,
her demonstration of spontaneity
and affection?

What I tend to say is, "Yes, but..."
and signal that I need to wash my hands
or flush the toilet.
I need a moment to meet her in that
special place.
And she's usually quite patient,
lowering her chin temporarily
but keeping her arms in position,
a veritable hugging machine just waiting
to hug hug hug.
And finally, we do -- and sometimes kiss, too.
Bonus.

However the last few "Hug!" exhortations
have left me feeling -- dare I say it? --
a tad molested.
I'm not one to be bossed about --
we have hierarchy in my family.
I ask for manners and happy voices,
invitations to act, not demands.
So when Lola comes at me again
with her "Hug me now!" display,
lately I chafe a bit, and maybe I even smell a rat.

The girl has a sharp legal mind
and I swear she knows what she's doing here;
she's found a loophole in the
Thou Shalt Not Boss Mommy commandment
(one of our family's pilars).
She senses that there is power in her
outspread arms and earnest heart,
that she has me a bit pinned.

Despite this, what kind of mother would say,
"Sorry, Lola" or "No thanks"?
A cold-hearted one, no doubt.
Nevertheless I find I want the choice.
Sometimes I want to dive into her arms
(after washing my hands)
and sometimes I want to come to a hug
more spontaneously,
when the moment is right, for me.
I'll need to be brave to try it.
I don't want to hurt her.

Friday, June 3rd

Rules. Goddamm rules. Sometimes it feels like I'm being swallowed whole by dictates, edicts, laws and regulations, formulated and passed down by the powers that be. Sure, some of them are well-intentioned, but most of them I find utterly unnecessary and inapt.

Like this one, a new edict from our state government via preschool: Cut all lunch components into too-small-to-choke-on bites. This includes peaches, cheese sticks, and asparagus. I swear. For now, sandwiches appear to be gliding by undetected, but surely those rascals will set off alarm bells soon enough.

Look, I want my kids to be choke-free, no doubt. But I also want them to learn how to bite and chew while they still have teeth in their head. I want them to know the pleasure of biting into a (whole) crisp apple, or working from one end to the other of a (raw!) carrot stick. Call me crazy. And considering there is another rule that prohibits kids from sharing their lunches, can't I sign a (g.d.) form that waives my right to sue if my child gags on the lunch I made her at home but that she just happens to be eating on their property? I'm just askin'.

For now, I grumble most mornings as I prepare their midday meal. Noooo, don't send half an avocado in its skin so it stays nice and green, cut it up and let it brown! Nooo, don't use that apple slicer to make eight wedges because even then they're still not small enough! Nooo, don't send blueberries, they're way too small! Oh wait, small is good, right. I feel like I have a bunch of cranky schoolmarms inside my head yelling nyet!

This morning I sent in long, razor-thin sections of cucumbers. So the police may be on their way. I simply couldn't cut them into that same bloody size and shape -- my sense of composition rebelled. And now no doubt eyebrows will be raised and I may even "make the teachers angry" as my girls have said about past food infractions. Well, all I can say is, I'm not a robot. I have my own mind. And anyway the rules are kinda vague so it's up to swashbucklers like me to test the new system.

Here's another rule that rankles: My local ice cream and hot dog stand cannot give out cups of tap water. This we learned yesterday from Beata who works the window. She says that it's against the law because of "health reasons and the faucet." (Here she pointed behind her as if to finger a guilty party.) She went on: "They say bottled water is safe, and tap water is at your own risk." Whaaaaa?!?

My gut tells me companies like Coca-Cola are behind this, lobbying the government to declare drinking water dodgy in the name of safety. (Disclosure: If I didn't like my house so much, maybe I'd move Concord, Mass., where they outlawed the sale of bottled water. How cool.) I also smell a business-insurance rat -- maybe Beata's boss can't afford the costlier coverage that includes the faucet, so instead he opts for providing (revenue-generating) drinks in a shiny, branded fridge. That, my friends, is what we call a win-win.

So amidst all this muck I'm becoming a silly bag lady, especially when we go out to eat. If you look inside my sizable tote, here's what you'll find: a stainless steel water bottle, hopefully recently filled up but sometimes I forget; stainless reusable straws for the girls (waiters pass those plastic ones out like nobody's business and then the wee ones dreamily chew away at them, yuck); bamboo utensil sets; cloth napkins; hankies for the perpetual runny noses; a glass or metal storage container to bring home the inevitable leftovers; and reusable shopping bags so I can be more of a bag lady! Meanwhile I'm sure I'm forgetting something...

But let's get back to those pesky rules which sometimes come in the form of "suggestions." Like the whole guilt-ridden culture around breastfeeding, as if you commit milk-murder when you resort to formula because your own milk hasn't come in and the kid is losing weight and you think she might seriously waste away before anything noteworthy shows up in your now-raw titties -- or maybe you have a life and want to go to the movies or the moon and don't want to be hooked up to one of those moo-pumps only to sit there and feel stupider and more violated than you did in junior high school when your best friend decided to feel you up. 

News alert: Formula is food! The powers that be want to scare you into thinking mother's milk is the only responsible option, but with all their studies and  reports they still can't figure out whether we should eat salt let alone what causes obesity. So the jury's still out on formula vs. breast milk. And don't you know tons of healthy adults who were formula babies, riding around unbuckled in cars filled with second-hand smoke and some old tootsie rolls stuck between the cushions? That's gotta count for something.

And anyway, aren't we getting just a little too precious, paranoid and obsessive here? I lay a lot of the blame on our competitive, puritanical culture and especially on the manic, overstimulated and overstimulatING news media. Which is why I practice a religion of No News Unless It's Very Local and Also Involves Kittens. Then my ears prick up.

Which brings me to my morning run on Memorial Day. I hit the road at about six, staying mostly to the right and easily within the white line... for safety. Impediments like puddles or big tree branches sometimes caused me to breach the line, but so briefly that the safety police watching me via satellite probably didn't notice. Good girl.

I proceeded down our main street and came upon the stretch of potato fields that are stunning if slightly disturbing because I've heard that they use (unorganic) pesticides because it's a cash crop and they're not willing to rotate crops, la la laaaaa -- kittens, please, give me news of kittens! Where was I? Yes, I was running down our extremely quiet and (superficially) bucolic byway. When I got to my destination which is the second yellow arrow past the big tobacco barn, I slapped the sign, took off my windbreaker, turned around and headed for home. 

Somewhere in that about-face, though, I got a notion to stop short of crossing all the way to the other side of the street. Instead I... wait for it... ran right down the middle. Double yellow line all the way. Badass. I had no plans, no idea how long I wanted to stay out there. But the more I did it, the more I liked it. No, loved it. It was like the oxygen was different, more rich and expansive. I felt stronger, more alive (and alert! Though only once did I have to "pull over" to let a car go by). I felt just plain free.

*Who said* you have to run on the side of the road even when there is no one in sight on a straightaway? How did I get that lodged in my head? So many voices whisper and shout that it's the safe, considerate thing to do. Well, it's not what *I* do anymore. I'm listening to my own voice on this one. As it happens, I've got my own powers of reason, and it feels good to use them.

Hmm, maybe I'll get a tattoo next.

Wednesday, May 25th

Sometimes I need help
remembering who I am.
The normal triggers and
signposts
don't manifest.
They slumber --
taking a welcome break, I suppose.
And so today, after the girls
go to school
and after I
get dressed,
tuck away fresh laundry,
grab a few necessities
at the grocery store
and return to my now-empty home,
I look around vaguely.
I lack clarity of purpose.

Today is my day off.
I've arranged things so that
there is nothing pressing
on the domestic front.
If I choose to, I may sit
in my plentiful grey chair
all day,
feet propped up, mug perched nearby.
I think, Maybe I'll finish the Auster novel
I picked up at the library.
The sun has other ideas.
Unobstructed by clouds
or the threat of rain, a star (literally)
in its own right,
it pulls me outside
to the side porch.
I kick my white winter legs
out in front of me,
and they drink the warmth as truly
as I drink my tea.

Who am I?

On other similarly quiet days,
if I don't run right out to see a friend for lunch
or a movie,
or duck into a thrift shop to hunt,
when I let the quiet come and tickle my ears,
I can feel abstracted,
alone,
missing the immediacy and consistency
of the needs of my family,
their hugs and kisses, their demands.
Today, almost as a discipline,
I will serve *my* needs.
But what are they?

Finally, I bring my reddening legs
back into the shade,
the deep shade of the attic --
where I am slowly wading through boxes
in the hopes of lightening up.
I finish sorting books and
a bag full of kids clothes
and head into a small side room
where a rolling coat rack holds
some of my treasures.
I slide open the plastic zipper
in search of giveaways,
flab,
but instead I find
me.

There I am, in the form of a summer dress.
Two, three, four, snug together,
all vintage,
all brightly colored and patterned,
very original and eluding categorization by era,
carefully culled from years of visits
to garages and estate sales,
second-hand stores,
my grandmother's closet.

I grab them, unhook the hangers,
redo the storage-bag zipper snugly,
and then tromp back to my room
to model them -- me -- for myself.

With each "new" dress,
I breathe easier, better.
Yes, yes, my whole self seems to be saying,
here you are in that floor-length Mexican one,
Where did you get it again? A friend's castoff,
I remember now. Did she even charge me?
And the white wool tennis dress?
Fits like a glove, but will you ever wear it?
Who cares, it's winning. In the closet
it goes.
Yes, yes, my self speaks clearly now,
you are a mom and homemaker,
a baker of bread,
but you are also one hell of a
shopper
with a razor-sharp eye.

Now that the sun is out and high,
I don my favorite by far, the dress with the turquoise background
punctuated by red and purple flowers.
On any other dress it is a tacky combination,
but on this one it is magic.
I snip the belt off, something I should have done
years ago,
and choose a violet leather one instead.
I go out now, out of my house,
out of my shell,
toward more references,
more reminders of me.
To the cinema (of course!),
last Sunday's crossword in hand
and colorful thoughts in my heart.

Tuesday, May 10th

I'm not cut out for this.
Being the good wife,
carrying the water while
the husband drives off
to a writers' colony
for ten long days (and nights).
It might have been otherwise --
I might have been game --
if the stars didn't collide
every time I'm alone with the kids
for more than a few hours.
Let alone days.

And I swear, it's not me.
I act the same, I wear the same
dresses and leggings and colorful
shoes.
I play the same music, make the same
smoothies,
read the same books at bedtime.
I am the same, dammit.
And yet here I am at the end of day five
exhausted and disheartened.
I'm even a little stunned that such a cluster
of things could now be off-kilter, unreachable
by me.
It's as if they're awaiting my man's return.

So he'll sweep in on Sunday,
and the troubles, my troubles, will recede
like a moon tide.
I'll relax and soften into his hugs,
his presence a salve for my wounds.
If only I could forget, too,
the grief of this week,
the outright humorlessness of it.
It sits on my heart like a stone.
Four
more
days.

Saturday, April 30th

A Lucy moment:

ME: Lucy, would you like some milk in a cup, honey?
LUCY: Yes.
ME: Would you like to say that differently?
LUCY: Yeah.
ME: Wanna try again, sweetie?
LUCY: Yeh-sss.
ME: Lu-cy. That's quite an acting clinic, but you're missing something.

I know I'm really pushing this, but I can't seem to stop. I've gotta finish it.

ME: Daddy, if I were to say, "Daddy, would you care for some cherry tomatoes?" what would you say?
DADDY: Oui, s'ill vous plaît.
ME [sighing]: C'mon! English please!
DADDY: Okay, "Yes, please."
ME: That's right!! [dramatic pause] Okay, Lucy, want to try again? "Would you like some milk in a cup?"
LUCY [no pause]: No, thank you.

Saturday, April 30th

I resent it,
I do.
Tonight I am home
alone (kids in bed,
Jon and dad off at a
literary-magazine launch party).
It is a rare occasion for me
to read or putter around
or just plain gaze out the window
at nothing and everything.

But instead I am tending
to Lola as she tosses, turns
and coughs,
an early-spring cold
overriding her usual ability
to conk out precisely at seven-thirty.
(Which I had thought she had done.
Ooh, that was a delicious moment of illusion.)

But now I resent it,
resent this night which is
no longer mine,
resent the men sent off for fun,
("Another cocktail?")
resent the accumulation of nights
just like this one.
They are rare, indeed,
and yet they all seem to have the same
outcome: me working overtime.
Bah humbug to bad luck!