Light Refreshments Served

A few women I admire have a blog, Good Mommy, Bad Mommy and they posted an article that’s nearly a year old, but it was the first time I’d come across it. You know I love a good article, so I thought I’d share it again here.

In this article here, author Rebecca Walker relates what it was like to grow up with her famous mother, Alice Walker, and how her views as a mother have been affected by feminism, specifically her mother’s attitude of what Rebecca Walker calls “fanatical feminist views.” I want to make it clear that I have strong feelings about feminism, good and bad, and I think a lot of women do. I mean, I wear pants and pump my own gas and everything! Ha ha. Just trying to lighten up the mood (I’m writing about DIVORCE and FEMINISM–do I need the FALL TV SEASON to hurry up and start or WHAT!) I think there is a swing towards extremes when we, as women, talk about feminism, which doesn’t interest me, and I am really drawn to this article because it calls for “evaluation” and “alterations,” which interests me.

The introduction to the article in The Daily Mail, says,

She’s revered as a trail-blazing feminist and author Alice Walker touched the lives of a generation of women. A champion of women’s rights, she has always argued that motherhood is a form of servitude. But one woman didn’t buy in to Alice’s beliefs – her daughter, Rebecca, 38.
Here the writer describes what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a cultural icon, and why she feels so blessed to be the sort of woman 64-year-old Alice despises – a mother.

Rebecca Walker states, without apology or qualification:

I was raised to believe that women need men like a fish needs a bicycle. But I strongly feel children need two parents and the thought of raising Tenzin without my partner, Glen, 52, would be terrifying.

What particularly struck me as important in this article, however, was that this was written not by a vengeful daughter looking to embarrass her mother. It was written by a thoughtful mother who, like many mother, wants to change things for the better. She is questioning the feminist principles by evaluating their effects in order to see how they can change the world for good. She explains:

My mother’s feminist principles coloured every aspect of my life. As a little girl, I wasn’t even allowed to play with dolls or stuffed toys in case they brought out a maternal instinct. It was drummed into me that being a mother, raising children and running a home were a form of slavery. Having a career, travelling the world and being independent were what really mattered according to her.
I love my mother very much, but I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since I became pregnant. She has never seen my son – her only grandchild. My crime? Daring to question her ideology.
Well, so be it. My mother may be revered by women around the world – goodness knows, many even have shrines to her. But I honestly believe it’s time to puncture the myth and to reveal what life was really like to grow up as a child of the feminist revolution.

She explains what it was like and it was really quite shocking to me. Walker states what she believes are some of the negative outcomes of feminism (easily obtained divorces, childlessness, child development) and suggests, simply, that we evaluate our modern assumptions of feminism and family:

But far from taking responsibility for any of this, the leaders of the women’s movement close ranks against anyone who dares to question them – as I have learned to my cost. I don’t want to hurt my mother, but I cannot stay silent. I believe feminism is an experiment, and all experiments need to be assessed on their results. Then, when you see huge mistakes have been paid, you need to make alterations

In the article she states the positive effects of the feminist movement. Benefits I’ve experiences as well: opportunities for education, better pay, job opportunities, choices, and so on. I like that she is not balancing her experience by throwing everything out. She is simply asking for an honest evaluation to be made and alterations to made accordingly. Not feeling like you can even talk about it or discuss it openly and honestly without fear of being shunned or ignored by educated society is a problem.

Being famous and doing what you love and getting paid for it are not the same thing. 

Topher and I have been around enough actors to realize that some of them want to act and some of them want to be famous. Years ago I couldn’t put my finger on what it was about some actors that made them seem genuine or authentic and those who weren’t. Now I can tell. Acting’s such an interesting profession, because you couldn’t say the same thing for, say, accountants. Or Medical technicians.

My boys were talking the other day and Miles has always asserted that he wants to be a quadrillionaire comedian. Owen says he wants to be famous. When I asked Owen what he wants to be or to do in order to get famous, he has to think about it–like it’s secondary to being well-known. I asked him why he wants to be famous, and he said what you might expect an 8 year-old to say, “Because you get lots of money, and anything you want and people know you all over the world and scream your name.” When Miles is asked why he wants to be a quadrillionaire (oh, remember the days when we aspired to be a “millionaire”? Oh simple days. . .) he says so he can buy his way into being a comedian. Interesting.

I don’t want to be famous, really, but I’d like to be marginally famous. Like when people saw me they’d think I look familiar, but they can’t place my name. Or they interchange me with someone else. They’d say “Oh, aren’t you that girl from. . .um. . .that one thing?” and I’d nod, say yes, and go on with my business. They wouldn’t want my autograph, but I wouldn’t blame them. I would be protective of my anonymity because it would encourage me to get the role of “quirky best friend” or “outlandish shop keeper.” 

I think it’s funny that early in my brother’s career as a rockstar a group of girls chased him down, screaming for an autograph and it turned out they thought he was Beck. That’s funny and humbling. But now they recognize him. I wonder how you ever get used to that. 

I’d like to have a little more money, but what I really crave is power. Most days I am putting out little fires and trying to maintain the minimum glamour which is my life.  I’m not even in control of when I will eat, sleep, or use the bathroom (sorry, but I hope I made my point). It would be nice to have to make really important decisions that seem important.  I realize that raising children is really the ultimate power–”the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world” kind of thing, but it doesn’t always feel like power. Usually it feels like servitude. I guess I’m a little dramatic and part of me wants to storm into a board meeting wearing a designer power suit, throw a briefcase down on the table and yell, “We’ve been going about this all wrong! We’re going in another direction! We’re changing everything!” 

I know raising children will pay off to those who matter most to me in the most significant ways, of course, or I wouldn’t be doing it.  But sometimes when my kids look at me I get a creepy suspicion that they see right through me and have me figured out: that I don’t really know what I’m doing. Sometimes that feeling is overwhelmingly tragic, and sometimes it’s funny. Usually it’s funny.

When I was in college a lot of my friends started getting married.  My friend Ken and I had been through a lot together.  We met after being put in charge of our college FHE group, and continued our friendship through double dates, spelunking invitations, a Y Group leader stint, and ultimately challenged the very limits of our camaraderie as we spent a summer interning for the same Congressman where I daily fantasized about strangling him.  The feeling was mutual.  Nevertheless, we reconciled and returned to school in the Fall under a mutual pact that we would still consent to fixing up the other with our friends as long as we promised never to work together again.  Shortly thereafter Ken fell prey to a pair of blue eyes and called me to announce his engagement.  “Congratulations!”  I exclaimed appropriately.  “What’s she like?” I asked.  “Well,” he started.  And then he said something unlike any of those who had gone before him, “she’s everything I never wanted.”  Whaaa…?  “Why are you so stupid?” I implored.  But then he elaborated, explaining that what he used to think he wanted in a wife (perfect body, perfect wardrobe, manicured nails, beach volleyball champion, perfectly articulate, ferocious gym-goer, and general overachiever) was not what he wanted after all.  It almost felt like he was trying to prepare me, and I was tempted to ask, “So on a scale of 1 to Rosie O’Donnell, what are we talking here?”  But I decided to hear him out.  “She’s beautiful, and she’s nice, and if I ever got thrown in jail I’d want her to be the one to bail me out,” was the essence of his dissertation on why she was The One.  Oh.  What’s wrong with that?  I met her later that week, and she was perfectly delightful.  But I couldn’t help dwelling on his initial reply of “everything I never wanted”.  Why didn’t he want that before, and what caused him to change his mind? 

Sometime during my college experience when MRS. Degrees were falling from the sky [and this is where I insert one of my favorite quotes from my college buddy Jon, who said to me one day, “I’m not looking for Mrs. Right, I’m looking for Mrs. RIGHT NOW so get over here!”  I laughed, and stayed put.]  I found myself rebelling against the ebb and flow of dating and marriage pressure.  I didn’t want to be like “everybody else” (I know it wasn’t everybody, it just seemed like it) with dating to marriage scenarios lasting less than six weeks and I wanted to wait a while.  Then I met Cory.  Our dating to marriage development was a year and a half, but I vividly remember riding in a car with my friends and amidst the chatter and frivolity that was any of our car rides, I thought to myself, “You know what?  I want to be married.  I want the same thing as everybody else.”   

Three years after we got married I had our first child, quit my job and became a stay at home mom.  I made the choice to stay home based on feasibility and the example of my mother.  It felt like the right thing to do, despite my feelings of inadequacy to do it well.  I was not the kind of person who always dreamt of being a mom.  I always imagined I would have children and raise a family, but I didn’t anticipate that role with particular eagerness.  I’ve done okay I guess, but now that my kids are in school I have toyed with the idea of trying to get some kind of a job.  The kind that lets me interact with full-fledged adults, challenge my skills, or allows me to learn new ones.  I am home for six hours a day forcryingoutloud, it seems like I could be more productive. 

I briefly mentioned in an earlier post that I’ve been working a few days this week for a friend’s business.  It is only a few days, it’s not rocket science.  Even still, the days that I have worked have felt different.  The mornings have been more rushed, the evenings less organized, the meals less of everything.  Then yesterday Drew spiked a fever and had to stay home so I had to call and say I wouldn’t be able to make it.  I stayed home, fed him crackers and sprite, covered him with a blanket after he fell asleep, and we took in a few episodes of “Monk” together.  I am not judging those who do it differently, but being able to be physically and emotionally available for my son yesterday felt good.  To be able to say with integrity that I was at the right place at the right time, and to know that on most days, I can do so without feeling guilty about letting anyone else down.  As I type this I can see fingerprints on the French doors, homework all over the counter, and a bike helmet randomly thrown on the chair beside me.  But in the other room a little boy sleeps, knowing that when he wakes up I will be here to take care of him.  And you know what? 

It’s everything I never wanted.

My friend Randi (at least I consider her my friend – we’ve never actually met, but she blogs, I blog; she lives in Colorado, I live in Colorado; she’s funny, I’m…well, I like to read her stuff) wrote a post recently that gave me pause to reflect on my job as a stay at home mom.  We pay lip service all the time about how blessed we are if we’re lucky enough to stay home with our kids, (and we know there are many who wish they could do it but can’t) but this gives the kind of insight that the lip service usually glosses over. You see for three weeks, Randi went to work as a long term substitute teacher.  An excerpt:

For the first week, I felt Very Important getting out there and having to be somewhere on time every day. But I could see things around the house starting to deteriorate, and I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. I came home with both my brain and my legs aching. (I swear I would rather have been paid by the mile!) Shopping? Cleaning? We would just have to all pitch in and make these things happen. I mean, other families do it, right?

The second week went downhill fast…

Don’t delay – Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, just click here and read the whole post and make Randi your friend.  Tell us what you think here below!