Sandra Tsing Loh’s NY Times op-ed last weekend, “My So-Called Wife”, is fabulous because it’s so funny and true. We can’t seem to escape our cultural dynamic–the loss of the wife (likely bored and domestically dominant) and the arrival of the harried mother (the expectations are so high!)–at least we can identify our predicaments. And then, perhaps, change them.
As a kid, I used to lose things all the time–books, clothes, my hamster Joey. Most often these items disappeared within the four corners of my room. I would search and search and then holler, “Mom, I can’t find my _______!” She soon would arrive, make a sweep of the area and find my missing treasure within minutes. It looked like magic.
I seem to have inherited the skill, though it did not manifest until my kids were old enough to misplace their own stuff and call me for assistance. I can walk around the house and find anything that’s missing–soccer shirt, stuffed koala bear, loveys, the miniature sun shield from a Lego man’s helmet. Adam Gopnik marvels at his wife’s ability to do the same in his book about raising kids in New York, Through the Children’s Gate. When she takes a short trip to visit relatives, he must call her to locate the TV remote. Over the phone, she ascertains exactly what transpired by recalling who sits where during TV watching, and how the remote eventually gets knocked under a particular piece of furniture. Sure enough, she’s right.
I can find things in the house because I too observe everyone’s habits. More
For three years, I’ve purposefully overlooked Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work: On Becoming a Mother
Finally a few weeks ago I pull out A Life’s Work feeling curious and wary. Cusk’s writing has a suspended quality, like the world I live in when seriously sleep deprived. The shadows look darker and the light parts fuzzy or too bright. More
The Perfect Bra does not exist. I mean, the Perfect Bra does not exist for me.
Moms are often chastised for writing about their post-baby boobs, yet I challenge anyone who goes through the more severe levels of breast loss not to talk about it. We are processing. We experience stages of grief, fear, frustration and the kind of acceptance that slips through our fingers on a bad hair day. We want support. If a boob job is beyond us, we are left with the bra.
Every magazine article I’ve read in my search for padding suggests that the solution can be purchased in a lingerie department. During college, I spent a few summer weeks working in lingerie at Bullocks. I mostly fastened little straps onto plastic hangers. Two large breasted women managed the department. They were experts. A woman casually sauntered into their domain and they whipped the best undergarments for her shape off the racks and drove her into a dressing room. Fifteen minutes later, I rang up purchases at the cash register, listening to the customer’s excited chatter (lingerie by nature titillates) as she raved about perfect fit.
My first trip to the lingerie department does not attain the same level of success. More
Sometimes when the door is open I walk into Amelia’s room with her laundry and find her in the closet, admiring herself in the mirror. She stops as soon as she sees me, but not before I get a glimpse of her beaming smile and sparkling eyes. Or her angry eyebrows as she tries on a mean face. I remember doing the same as a girl–experimenting, practicing, checking out how cool I am. Now when I look in the mirror I stand there for maybe three minutes. I search for imperfections–dark eye circles, flat hair, the outfit that doesn’t work. I’m always fixing. I watch Amelia’s curiosity and delight in her reflection and think about how skewed my perspective has become. I love her mirror time. What did I do with all that I’m fabulous good stuff?
Arianna Huffington is asking some of the same questions. She recently announced The Sad, Shocking Truth About How Women Are Feeling. According to over 30 years of surveys, married, single, mothers, rich or poor, women are less and less happy worldwide. Our happiness has been on a downward trend since the early 1970s, right after Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. Black women are the only ones polling as happier, but not as happy as black men. We’ve got more choices, better options and less joy. Meanwhile, to add salt in the wound, men are reportedly getting happier.
Other than the happy man part, I’m not surprised. More