In which I decide my spectrum of crazy is consistent. To whit:
I was going on a little neighborhood walk with the babe-o-ling and was guided across one street by an adult crossing guard (for the school my daughter will one day attend should we still live in the same apartment five years from now). As we crossed, the guard said "there you go, hon!"
Okay, so, like, I don't think the crossing guard lady was in actuality all that much older than I, but I took her "hon" to mean that she thought that I was much younger, perhaps young enough that maybe I was the baby's nanny and not her mother.
I KNOW. Ridiculous. Because no matter how young I might look to anybody I certainly look plenty old enough to be the mother of a nine-week-old.
Set the way-back machine to spring of 1980 when I was eight-years-old and had recently read Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret. I remember sitting in church holding my baby brother on my lap and wondering if anyone would think that he was my kid. Y'know because there were babies having babies! (Nevermind that I didn't get my period until I was almost sixteen or how pissed off my mother was that I learned about menstruation initially from reading said Judy Blume.)
There was no flippin' way that anyone would have ever thought that I was my brother's mother. I'm pretty sure the same flippin' way exists in regards to being thought of as the nanny of my daughter.
It's not that I really care one way or the other what other people think--you gotta have some story to tell at the dinner table--but here I am again trying to figure out what my place is in a world of gender roles and stereotypes. And you all know I gotta be me.
It's not about age either. I like how old I am, the life I'm living, and the grey hairs that come with it. It's just more of that Stay at Home Mom jive...or maybe a new version of the "when is a door not a door?" riddle.
It's occupying my brain so much more than I ever realized it would. I'm not raging against any kind of machine (although I imagine some dinner tables may speculate that as Small Girl has my last name), it's more of a devil in the details sort of thing. Overall, I like it. It makes for a good break from being all art, art, art all of the time.
And I suspect it'll bring me closer to those who are Not Me while still allowing me to be Me.
Posted by Ida at February 28, 2008 05:21 PMOh, come on. The only reason Judy Blume books exist at all is so parents can avoid explaining that stuff.
It's bad enough that one is expected to explain the facts of life to their kids, but trying to work it into a compelling narrative? Too much. Thus, Judy Blume.
Posted by: flamingbanjo at March 1, 2008 01:57 PMMy mother liked to have every uncomfortable opportunity.
Also, when I looked at that wikipedia link, I'd completely forgotten about Margaret's religious dilemma. I only remembered menstruation and "we must, we must, we must increase our bust." Shows you what I was worried about at that time in my life, donnit?
Posted by: ida at March 5, 2008 01:31 PMThe 8 year-old fantasy is not so unrealistic. On a San Francisco beach I was mistaken for my two little sister's mother at the horrifying age of 14. They were 7 and 9.
I didn't even read Are You There God until I was 16. I guess that makes me a real late-bloomer.
Posted by: Rachel at March 17, 2008 04:50 PM