i was in first grade when my teacher read the mrs. piggle-wiggle stories to our class after lunch every day.  i remember quite a few details about betty macdonald’s characters and their ailments. i also remember putting a band aid box in my teacher’s chair when she interrupted story time to fetch something from her desk. she returned to her chair and crushed the box as our class erupted with laughter. i ended up in the hall but it was worth it. clearly, i would have been a good candidate for one of mrs. piggle-wiggle’s cures!

but now that i am reading mrs. piggle-wiggle to the monkey, i am surprised at how much i do not remember about these little story gems. i do not, for example, remember this hilarious fossil of a conversation between mr. and mrs. russell:

mr. russell came whistling into breakfast. he said mildly, “oh, scrambled eggs again. i was hoping for sausages and buckwheat cakes.” mrs. russell said, “we had sausages and buckwheat cakes yesterday morning.” mr. russell said, “what about brook trout? bill smith has’em nearly every morning.” mrs. russell said crossly, “perhaps that is why he looks like a trout and his wife looks like a great big halibut” (mrs. piggle-wiggle, betty macdonald, 117).

mrs. russell exibited quite a bit of spunk and self-assurance for 1947, right?

but even more striking than the quick wit of mrs. russell are the phone conversations the mothers have with each other in every chapter. while the children’s bad behaviors and mrs. piggle-wiggle’s unorthodox cures delight the kids, surely these ridiculous phone chats were meant to entertain the mothers. for example, who has never been in an exchange such as this?

“hello, mrs. bags, this is hubert’s mother and i am so disappointed in hubert. he has such lovely toys — his grandfather sends them to him every christmas, you know — but he does not take care of them at all. he just leaves them all over his room for me to pick up every morning.” mrs. bags said, “well, i’m sorry, mrs. prentiss, but i can’t help you because you see, i think it’s too late.” “why, it’s only nine-thirty,” said hubert’s mother. “oh, i mean late in life,” said mrs. bags. “you see, we started ermintrude picking up her toys when she was six months old. ‘a place for everything and everything in its place,’ we have always told ermintrude. now, she is so neat that she becomes hysterical if she sees a crumb on the floor” (22).

in her phone-conversations-gone-wrong, bettty macdonald illuminates and exaggerates the miscommunication, judgement, and posturing that often come between mothers. every night, as i read the monkey his chapter of mrs. piggle-wiggle, i find myself laughing and rolling my eyes as i am reminded about something i have said to another mother or something another mother has said to me. the children in macdonald’s books are not the only ones behaving badly. they’re not the only ones being cured either.

perhaps this is why betty macdonald’s books have endured for over sixty years.  

the scene unraveled quickly.

our annual trip to the pink palace enchanted forest began as it usually does, with unbridled excitement about the escalators leading to the exhibit. with spirits elevated, the boys quickly embraced beloved out-of-town friends before bounding into the faux snowy cave, dimly lit by christmas lights and animated by the same motorized woodland creatures that enchanted me as a child. there was a happy sort of pandemonium as the kids frollicked amidst the sights and sounds, pausing only occasionally under the hypnosis of what is sure to be the world’s largest and most detailed electric train set.

as we settled into the line for santa visits and photographs, i fished a wad of pipe cleaners from my purse to occupy the boys. in a previous life (otherwise known as the day before), pipe cleaners were highly revered and even trance-inducing.

however, in this scene, they were apparently a blaring disappointment. the monkey flippantly asked for “another surprise,” at which point i explained that there were no more toys in my purse.

what followed was every mother’s worst nightmare: public humiliation in slow-motion. the monkey hit me three times, despite my very clear and intermittent 1-2-3 magic-style warnings about the consequences of such behavior. i was left with no other choice but to cut the outing short and head for the car.

i held the monkey’s mid-section under my right arm while he kicked, screamed, and flailed his arms. this allowed me to chase down the escaping bird, who was suddenly deep in conversation with a singing, snow-dusted squirrel.

source: jupiterimages.com

i heard an acquaintance utter my first and last name to her friend, and i turned around just in time to glimpse the ultimate sign of judgement: her pointer finger.

during this befuddled pause, i inadvertently loosened my grip on the monkey just long enough for him to make a break for it. as i chased the monkey through a sea of themed christmas trees and parenting-horror-show spectators, the bird teetered dangerously on the edge of the escalator. in the day’s only redemptive moment, i was able to snag the monkey and return to the bird just in time to prevent his impending tumble.

we provided another ten minutes of this entertainment before we made it to the car, and as i drove home to the now familiar soundtrack of the monkey’s wailing protests, i reassured myself with recollections from 1-2-3 magic. i remembered the notion that sometimes parents have to punish everybody, ourselves included, to get the point across. i replayed the author’s insistence that humiliation is a small price to pay for the future reward of well-behaved children.

but seriously. is there any other job in the world in which you’re not doing it right unless you look like a complete idiot?

after the “disenchantment,” the monkey was an angel for the rest of the day. 1-2-3 magic did pay off. but there was something about his demand for “another surprise” and his sense of entitlement during the pipe cleaner incedent that makes me want to read yet another book: the price of privilege.

i am not a science person, and i never took physics. perhaps this is why i have managed to reach the age of 34 without fully grasping the simple concept that i cannot be two places at once. but andy’s three-day out-of-town conference last week was just the crash course i needed to fulfill my “knowing one’s limitations” requirement.

lesson one occured at memphis botanic gardens’ big back yard, where i encountered another mom, who was expertly holding her ten-week-old while her three-year-old was tentatively exploring.  

i, on the other hand, darted frantically from one child-in-constant-motion to the other. the bird fell, the monkey was hogging the slide, the bird nibbled on someone else’s lunch, the monkey needed help finding the mallets for the “house of rock,” the bird was dangerously close to the creek, the monkey…

wait! where was the monkey? hiding in the worm hole. cool.

only this wasn’t so cool with the aforementioned mother, because while my attention was on the monkey, the bird was playing with the enticing gadgets on her ten-week-old’s empty stroller.

i scooped up the bird in a flurry of apologies. she said nothing but went to work on the stroller with wet wipes.

the big back yard is just that — big. but no matter how far we strayed from the perturbed mother and her statuesque children, the bird always managed to find his way back to her alluring collection of stroller toys. when she started scolding the bird and yanking him away from the empty stroller, i knew it was time to go. i also knew that in about a year, when her baby is walking, this mother would be joining me in the impossible attempt to be in two places at once.

lesson two occurred at the end of my solo-parenting duty, just as i was congratulating myself for maintaining patience, relative calm, and a sense of adventure while andy was away. the phone rang, and a kind and gentle church parishioner on the other end of the line expressed legitimate disappointment that i had not visited his family during a very critical time they had experienced in the previous few days, the same few days i spent playing the roles of mom, dad, and cruise director for my kids.

i was, and still am, riddled with guilt.

i’m also frustrated that in many cases for me, quality ministry and quality parenting are mutually exclusive. but no matter how hard i try, i cannot be in two places at once. sometimes being fully present to one child means being only marginally present to the other. sometimes providing stability during a critical time for my children means not providing empathy during a critical time for parishioners.

this is the reality of my life right now, one that i am having a hard time embracing. even i were a science person, i cannot change the laws of physics.

[this is the first in a series of guest posts written by jennifer harrison, who was perhaps the only other person in my high school english classes who joined me in gleeful celebration when called up on to diagram sentences. jennifer’s posts will highlight how her vocation as an elementary school teacher informs her parenting, and vice-versa. her bio is located at the conclusion of her wise words.] 

I’m not a math person but I have recently been throwing together some numbers. The upcoming school year marks my tenth as a classroom teacher. Each year, I’ve taught about 20 kids. This means that in all, I’ve worked with roughly 200 students, not to mention about 400 parents. So, long before I began raising my own daughter, Elizabeth, I was introduced to the wonderful, complicated, emotional, and consuming business of parenting.

While I will begin this school year and its requisite parent partnerships with a good chunk of experience under my belt, I nonetheless approach my tenth class with new eyes: the eyes of a new mother, who fiercely loves her daughter and only wants the best for her. I know that each first grade parent I will meet next week was once just like I am now: constantly chasing after a toddler; looking at a little face and wondering what kind of person this small being will become; and hoping that a cheerful, babbling child will always know a happy and abundant life.

Throughout my years as a teacher, I have come to believe that there is one essential truth about parenting. All parents, no matter whether they are overbearing, laid-back, or somewhere in between, absolutely love their children. The way in which this love manifests itself is wildly different from parent to parent. Some parents wring their hands in fretful anxiety about what I, as a teacher, know is a minor bump in the road (if it’s even a bump at all!). Others celebrate every victory and milestone with endless flashes of the camera and small notes in lunchboxes. Still others occupy themselves with very demanding careers so that they can provide their children with a vast array of creature comforts and material things. Regardless of how hands-on or hands-off a parent may appear to be, their common fuel is their deep and abiding love of sons and daughters.

” Too often, we critically declare that this mother works too much, this father hovers around the school too frequently, or this couple places too many demands on their child.”

I think it is unfortunately too easy for so many of us — teachers, fellow parents, and the casual observers of society — to quickly, harshly judge parents. Too often, we critically declare that this mother works too much, this father hovers around the school too frequently, or this couple places too many demands on their child. It helps to remember that all of those parents once held a moments-old newborn in their arms. They have all become enraptured, as I have, with the enormity and the wonder of a life that is, as a friend so wisely put it, pure potential. That moment is the tie that binds us all together as parents. It is a tie that I now share with the 36 parents who will soon receive a letter from me in the mail. I now understand the eyes with which those parents will read that letter. This fresh perspective has renewed my commitment to my career, and it has reminded me of all that I hope Elizabeth and I will grow to be as mother and daughter.

jennifer harrison earned her bachelors and masters degrees at vanderbilt and has taught in public and private schools since 1999. she currently enjoys chicago city life with her ER nurse husband, 13-month-old daughter elizabeth, and dog rowdy. when jennifer is not parenting or teaching, she enjoys reading, photography, travel, and the quest for the perfect latte.

this is my “to-do box.”

this is what the bird thinks of my “to-do box,” and all of the various lists, reminders, work obligations and home-related chores that reside on note cards therein:

what a perfect metaphor for what it’s like to try to be a “work-at-home-mom!”

i catch myself envying moms who work full-time outside of the home and those who leave their jobs completely to become stay-at-home-moms. surely life in these neatly defined categories is, well…neater.

but then i remember these wise words from lisa belkin’s life’s work: confessions of an unbalanced mom:

“i have yet to hear from anyone who feels they are doing everything right. so it’s not just me who can’t do this — and it’s not just you, either. not a one of us seems to be able to give 100 percent of themselves to their job and 100 percent of themselves to their family and 100 percent of themselves to taking care of themselves. small wonder. yet we all seem to think someone (else) out there is getting it right; people who work full-time think people who work  part-time are doing it, and people who work part-time think people who don’t work at all are doing it, and those who left the office to tend to home think that if only they could escape back to an office, they might find sanity. but all of this misses the point. no one can do it, because it cannot be done…. this emotional and economic tug-of-war is the central story of our generation” (14 , 16).

belkin is no longer in search of balance. now she’s just after “a close approximation of sanity.”

i think she might be on to something.

[bibliography is located on the sidebar to the right.]

• where is the monkey going to school next year?
• where do you live?
• do you work outside of the home?

these are just examples of the myriad questions moms encounter weekly in conversation with one another, all of which require nothing more than a one to two word answer. but far be it from me to offer up a curt couple of words and move on. i find myself launching into laborious explanations about why i have made particular choices; acknowledging the negative associations with the institutions, locales, and lifestyles at hand; and making careful assertions that i am not a summation of my child’s school, my neighborhood, and my mode of working.

but why do i do this?

apparently i am not alone. ayelet waldman, author of bad mother, recounts a conversation she had with a complete stranger in line at a local bakery. waldman is feeding her six-week-old baby with a bottle, and the stranger chides, “breast is best!” waldman then tearfully recites the litany of her breast-feeding woes, not the least of which is caused by her baby’s palate abnormality:

“all this i told the woman standing in line behind me at the cafe. i told her how i had weathered plugged ducts and breast infections; i showed her that the milk in that very bottle was colored a faint shade of purple from the gentian violet i’d been applying to treat a brutal case of thrush. to establish my breast-feeding bona fides, i even told her how especially traumatizing my failure to feed this baby was, given that i’d successfully nursed three children, one for nearly three years” (61).

sometimes i gush forth with too much information because i am trying to convince myself that i’ve taken the better path. sometimes i over-speak because i feel as if it is my obligation to give a thorough answer so as not to appear dismissive. and sometimes i simply want to be known on a deeper level than one can glean from the categories offered by our world.

but no matter what my reasons are, my explanations are a bit ridiculous.  it exhausts me to speak them, so listening to them probably makes people wish they could will themselves into a coma.

in the next few months, i’m going to enter into a little experiment. i’m going to try to resist the urge to insert words where there should be silence. i’m going to try not to control how i am perceived by others. i am going to allow for a little mystery to surround me where there was once a tumultuous sea of language.

if you see me in line at the bakery, babbling on to a stranger about how i’m not going to explain myself because i have given up the tedium of explaining myself, you have my permission to shove a baguette between my poor, jabbering jaws.

[the images displayed above are “wordles” created of the onslaught of language people encounter when they ask me simple questions.]

[the source for this post can be found in the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

a few weeks after the birth of my first child, i schlepped him with me to church to lead a study group. the monkey wore a sweet little gown made for him by my mother. i wore the proudest of mama smiles. but as we emerged from the car, all dapper and ebullient, we were met by this unsolicited piece of advice from one of MANY of the world’s mothering “experts:”

“THAT CHILD NEEDS A HAT!”

i stammered and stalled and ultimately just carried my little bundle inside. it was not until the days and weeks that followed that i had come up with a myriad of explanations and comebacks, the chief of which was,

“IT’S THE SUMMER IN MEMPHIS, LADY. HEY, LET’S STAND OUT HERE IN THE PARKING LOT AND SEE IF WE COULD GET AN EGG TO BOIL ON YOUR FACE!”

i know that i am not the only one who is appalled at the things that mothers say to each other. here are some classic examples from i was a really good mom before i had kids:

• “you’ve got 20 hours of help a week? aren’t you a stay-at-home mom?”
• “how did you guys manage to take so many date nights for yourselves? don’t you feel selfish?”
• “have you asked your kids’ dentist about all the candy they eat?”
• “do your kids feel cramped sharing a room?”
• “that’s so cute — he has spider-man shoes and a spider-man lunchbox. does he watch a lot of TV?” (Ashworth & Nobile, 65).

i think it was around the time i staged the 500th imaginary do-over of the church parking lot scene in my head (each one with wittier comebacks and kathy-bates-in-fried-green-tomatoes-type-vengeance) that i had a conversation with another church lady, and this time a very wise one.

she lamented that as a young mother, she wasted too much energy dwelling on the bombardments of “advice” coming from all directions. as a result, she instituted a standard reply that concisely and diplomatically captured her sentiments: “i am shocked by your rudeness,” she would say to the mothering “experts.”

i love this statement. it is powerful, not only because it gives befuddled moms a way to calmly express themselves but also because it saves said befuddled moms from later spending precious headspace on ego-driven inner dialogues!

next time i go to a baby shower where the mother-to-be is receiving all sorts of useful things like diaper bags, burp cloths, and monitors, i’m going to give the honoree something that will be equally useful: the wise church lady’s one-liner — the key to maintaining the proudest of mama smiles. it’s quite a good gift, when you consider the possible alternative:

[this one is for katie in sunny california. all quotation sources can be found by clicking on the bibligraphy page in the sidebar.]

early in my parenting career i accidentally wandered onto the battlefield where working moms and stay-at-home moms go to embed their insecurities in the condemnation of each other. funny — i just thought i was taking my kid to the playground. i was hoisting my little monkey into the swing when i had my first encounter. before she ever even learned my name, a fellow mother asked me if i stay at home full time (and strangely, whether or not i know how to knit). i was nobody until was grouped into one of two categories: that of the working mothers who don’t care about their kids, and that of the stay-at-home moms whose brains are mushy and full of cobwebs.

here is but one arrow in the quiver of the stay-at-home mother:

“whose life was ‘worth’ more — the mother’s or the child’s?… if a woman ‘chose’ to work, she was doing so at the ‘expense’ of her child” (warner 2005, 117-118).

the working mother might load her cannon with this:

“studies have never shown that total immersion in motherhood makes mothers happy or does their children any good. on the contrary, studies have shown that  mothers who are able to make a life for themselves tend to be happy and to make their children happy. the self-fulfillment they get from a well-rounded life actually makes them more emotionally available for their children — in part because they’re less needy” (warner 2005, 133).

my old marriage and family textbook explains that happy, satisfied mothers are more able to raise happy, satisfied children. it is not whether one stays at home or works outside of the home that relates to the health of her children. rather, a mother’s feelings about how she spends her days are more directly linked to her children’s well-being (kaplan 1998, 134).

the funny thing about this situation is that, if what my textbook says is true (and i believe it is), then these disparaging playground conversations undermine a mother’s happiness and by proxy, the happiness of her children. the mommy wars themselves are the problem, not the vocational choices we make.

so let’s quit this already! the next time someone hears how you spend your days and concludes that you are either heartless or brainless, just tell her to go to her room! if we’re going to ask our kids to play fair, we’re going to have to start heeding our own advice. let’s at least learn each other’s names before we pick teams.