Motherhood, The Second OldestProfession (5 page)

What kind of a mother would...

lose her amateur status by turning pro?

Louise and Estelle

Next to hot chicken soup and vitamin C, Louise considered breakfast with her children as the most overrated ritual in American culture.

What was so great about sitting around a table with two surly kids fighting over fifteen boxes of unopened cereal?

She relented once a year. She called it her Annual Christmas Breakfast with Mommy, complete with candy canes and favors. The rest of the time Louise worked at staying out of their way.

She had discovered early that she was not like other mothers. It disgusted her to take knots out of shoelaces with her teeth that a child had wet on all day. She was bored out of her skull sitting around buying hotels for Park Place with funny money. She was not fulfilled walking around with a handbag full of used nose tissue handed her by her children to dispose of.

Housework didn't do a lot for her, either. Neither did the women who talked about it. She refused to break out in hives just because someone had found a way to get spaghetti stains out of plastic place mats. One day when the group was talking about Heloise's eighty-seven uses for nylon net, Louise snapped, “Why don't we just make butterfly nets out of it, throw it over ourselves, and check in at a home?”

Her goal in life was to hire a woman who would come in and sit with her children while she worked.

Pier husband would not hear of it. “Give me a reason,” he kept insisting.

“I'm bored,” said Louise.

“That's not a reason,” he said. “That's a symptom. You should keep busy.”

Maybe he wanted her to lie like Elsie Waggoner, who said she got a part-time job to buy her daughter's Barbie and Ken dolls a wardrobe to go to Ohio State for the weekend.

In desperation, Louise did the next best thing. She volunteered.

It didn't take long for word to get out that Louise was “easy.” She'd chair anything. She'd save animals she hadn't even heard of, raise funds for diseases she couldn't pronounce, and sit through three-hour meetings where the only decision made was where to have the next meeting.

In 1973 she set a record for volunteering more hours in a year than any other woman in the community.

She also set another record ... unofficially. Louise hired and fired more babysitters in a year than any other woman in the history of women's liberation.

Louise demanded a woman who would read to her children and play games with them when they were bored.

She wanted a woman who would be there to share (heir day.

She wanted a woman who would bake them rookies, mend their broken toys, and kiss their scraped knees.

She wanted Julie Andrews flying around with an umbrella for a buck an hour.

The list of women who worked for Louise Concell would fill a book. There was Mrs. Crandel, who was a soap opera addict and between noon and 2 pm the world stopped.

There was Mrs. Sanchez, who made gin ice cubes and was discovered only when one of the children had a lemonade stand and every kid in the neighborhood slept through three meals.

Carol from the university lasted only a week, when the children began quoting from a Cheech and Chong album, causing Louise's teeth to go numb.

In the fall of 1979, Louise and her husband succumbed to temptation—a paying job that would take all her energies and time. She was chosen to serve as director of the Tinkerbell Child Care Center. Louise was ecstatic. She would have more responsibilities than she had ever had before, and for the first time there would be a price tag on her worth. She began a serious talent search for a surrogate Mother of the Year.

That's when she found Estelle. Estelle was too good to be true. She was young, had two children of her own, knew how to entertain them, feed them, and discipline them with firmness and love. She also drove.

Estelle had been a single parent for two years and had been through an entire alphabet of government services and organizations. At the moment, she was enrolled in the Social Awareness Program for Black Women that met in the church social hall every Wednesday.

She dropped her children, Glenn and Missy, off at the nursery in the room next door and took her place at a long table holding the Craft of the Day.

Today's project was simple enough. All she had to do was paint a cigar box and let it dry. Then take pieces of macaroni, dip them in paste, and place them on top of the cigar box. When it was completely covered, she sprinkled the entire box with sequins and, voila, a jewelry box.

The only problem was she had no jewelry.

Estelle fingered the macaroni slowly and wondered about her life. What did she have to show for her two years at SAPFBW? A macrame pot. A crocheted Mexican hat that fit over a bottle of Tabasco sauce, a picture of an English cottage in bottle caps, and a piggy bank made out of a bleach bottle.

And now the pasta experience.

Angry with herself, she grabbed the bag of macaroni, took it home, cooked it and vowed to find a job.

Estelle loved her children and didn't want them to suffer for her restlessness. She had heard good things about the Tinkerbell Child Care Center.

“Do you have any questions about us?” asked Louise Concell. “After all, that's what I'm here for.”

“Do you keep the children busy?” asked Estelle. “I mean, I don't want a place where they nap all day long.”

“I think you'll find we have a superb activities program,” said Louise.

“What about the teachers? My kids have never been away from me for any length of time.”

“They love them as they do their own. Trust me,” smiled Louise.

“I want someone around my children who doesn't consider it just a job but who really wants to be with them.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Louise, smiling. “We close at 6:15. Is that a problem?”

“Actually, I don't have a job yet,” said Estcllc. “I wanted to try the children out here while I start looking.”

I^)uise pushed her glasses to the top of her head. “I l.ivc you thought of child care?”

Estelle shook her head.

“You see, I have two young children at home and I was looking for someone to sit with them. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“That's what I'm here for,” said Estelle.

“I would want planned activities for the children so they're not watching the tube all day. They have such a low threshold of interest. You know, busy work.”

“I've had plenty of experience with that in the last couple of years.” Estelle smiled.

“My children would have to like you. You see, I've always been a mother who has stayed at home, and they're not used to being around anyone else.”

“I've always been good with children. Trust me.”

“This is difficult for me to explain,” said Louise, “but my children have always been rather special to me and I don't want someone who is just being with them for money, but someone who really loves them and wants to be with them.”

“I know where you're coming from,” said Estelle.

So it was in September, 1980, both Louise and Estelle became “career mothers” . . . for minimum-wage scale.

They both wiped noses, changed diapers, rocked babies, hummed lullabies, and made bloody fingers well again with the touch of their lips.

Neither could explain why being paid for it made such a difference.

How I Spent My Summer

by Laura Parsons. Age 11

I spent my summer the same way I spent my winter. I’m a mini-mom. When my mom is away at work, I take care of my younger brother and three sisters.

A mini-mom’s job is boring.

I take my brother and sisters to the bathroom when they don’t want to go.

I wash their faces when they jerk their heads away.

I wipe their runny noses when they don’t want them wiped.

I put them to bed when the’re not sleepy.

And when they follow their “real mother”, I grab them around the neck and hold on tight until they turn purple.

There is a lot of hittig and spitting with the job.

I wish I had never been born first. I thought it would be neat, but that’s before I found out that I would be the first to reach the top shelf and have to get glasses down . . . the first to know how to butter, tie and zip . . . the first one to be old.

Sitters get neat snacks and tips if the house isn’t wrecked. They get treated lik a sister.

Mini-moms get blamed if someone turns the garden hose on in the living room and punished fi someone eatsthe bnaban mom was saving. We’re treated like mothers.

Being a mother really grosses me out. I hate wiping someone after they go to the toilet. I hate it when I call a thousand times and they pretend they don’t heat me. I hate not having any time to be by myself.

They like their real mom better than they like me. I don’t care.

I wanted to run away from home, but my mother would kill me if I went out on the highway before they put a traffic light in.

I don’t want to be a mother, ever.

The five Greater American Ficton Writers of All Time

(Who Just Happen to Be Mothers)

EILEEN WHORF

(Author of the Poetry Club Letters)

September 16, 1978

Mrs. Loretta Flake

Bramblebush Acres

Norman, Oklahoma

My Dear Mrs. Flake:

I cannot tell you how surprised and shocked I -was to learn that I had been nominated to succeed you as president of the Walt Whitman Poetry Club.

Especially since I attended only one of your meetings as a guest.

Although I am honored to be considered, it is with great regret that I must decline to serve as your president next year.

I know you will understand when I tell you I am terrified to get up before anyone to speak. It's a congenital shyness that I have learned to live with, but it certainly would not serve the best interests of the Walt Whitman Poetry Club.

Gratefully,

Eileen Whorf

September 21, 1978

Dear Loretta:

Thank you for your letter of insistence. I do agree that the more one speaks, the more comfortable one becomes. However, there is still another reason why I cannot serve as your president. I haven't told anyone (even my husband) about a small cyst on my right toe. It is probably benign, but we never know and I would not have your membership suffer because of my infirmity. I know you will keep my little secret.

Trustingly,

Eileen Whorf

September 86, 1978

Dear Loretta:

If perseverance were little drops of rain, you would have drowned weeks ago. I know I could count on the understanding and support of your membership, and thank you for reminding me of the Cyst Leave of Absence in the by-laws. However, there is a possibility that Mr. Whorf is being transferred to another country, in which case it would be impossible for me to commute to the monthly meetings of the Walt Whitman Poetry Club. Surely there is someone in your membership worthy of the honor you have tried to bestow on me with such force.

Regards,

Eileen Whorf

October 1, 1978

Dear Loretta:

You and your membership astound me with your generosity, and although I know you are willing to allow me to serve as your president until we move out of the country, there is still another reason.

I don't drive.

Anticipating your reply, I don't like to ride with anyone either.

Regards,

Eileen Whorf

October 4, 1978

Look, Loretta, I don't even know who Walt Whitman is! Eileen Whorf

October 7, 1978

Loretta:

I accept.

Eileen Whorf Reluctant President of the Walt Whitman Poetry Club

BARFY WHITCOMB

(Author of the annual Christmas

Newsletter)

Christmas, 1982

Dear Friends and Relatives:

Heigh. Ho, everyone.

Another year has gone by, and it's time to bring you up to date on the Whitcombs.

Our Lewiston took his college entrance exams and was accepted at Harvard. (Sob. Sob. Sixteen seems so young to go to school so far from home.) Bob and I will drive him to Boston, as he is talking about taking his Russian icon collection with him. (You can't tell children anything!)

As you can see by the enclosed picture, Melody has certainly filled out. She is following in her mother's footsteps at Seward High by being named head of the Pom and Flag drill team. The head of Pom and Flag is automatically named Prettiest Girl in the Class and Homecoming Princess at the Farewell Waltz. The theme this year is “Some Enchanted Evening.” You're going to die, but that was exactly the same theme as the year I was Princess! Couldn't you scream?

Bob has had another promotion since last year's letter, putting us in another tax bracket (ugh). I am busy with my volunteer work. Last year I gave seventy-four phone hours to soliciting baked goods for the Bake-A-Rama. I was named Top Call Girl by the League.In June, the Whitcombs “roughed it” on a camping venture. Imagine traveling six hundred miles with no Cuisinart! Our camper was forty-five feet long and Bob went crazy trying to back it into a spot in the campgrounds. Melody said it was what he got for not going where there was valet parking. Melody is a stitch. (Three of her quotes have been used by Reader's Digest.)

I must say it was a trip to remember. We saw a bird eating bread off a picnic table and one day visited a discount house. You have to admit, Barry Whitcomb married adventure!

Tragedy struck the household in August. Chelsey, our prize-winning poodle, was raped by a German shepherd who forced his way in through the mail drop. No one fought harder for her honor than Bob.

Bob and I went to State for our twentieth reunion. You can imagine my shock when the usher directed us to the “student section.” Everyone wanted to know what we did to stay so eternally young. We don't do anything special. We just eat properly, exercise regularly, and are rich.

I want to thank all of you who commented on last year's letter. (You know, the one where I paraphrased all the Whitcombs' achievements to “The Night Before Christmas.”) It's gratifying to know that someone appreciates what it takes to get something to rhyme with “opulence.”

Joyeux Noel

Feliz Navldad

Merry Christmas

Barfy and Bob

Melody and Lewiston Chelsey and Bruno

BILLIE

(Author of letter to former classmate

regarding impending visit)

April I2, 1982

Dear Sal:

What a surprise to hear from you. I can't believe it was three years ago since you and your family last visited. But then I counted hack to when I got the sofa recovered and new mattresses (is Tommy toilet-trained yet?) and the car repainted, and you're right. Three uneventful years.

Since you are such a good friend, I know you will understand when I tell you we are sorry we are not going to be home when you pass through this time, even though you did not pin your visit down to a definite date. There are so many reasons, I hardly know where to begin.

First, Mother has become a problem. Whenever she has a “spell,” we must run. I know this sounds vague and mysterious, but I'll explain later, when I have more time. It's sort of like your little Warren. Does he still love to watch fire?

Bill and I may go around the world all summer. Nothing definite. It's still in the planning stages and will depend on whether business picks up at the gas station and if he can get time off and we can scrape the money together and you know how it is.

If we stay home, we may paint the entire house inside and out, and you know what a mess that can be when you're visiting. (Especially if your Mona locks herself in the bathroom and mixes her “secret potion” in the toilet bowl.)

The children are also thinking of going to camp and it certainly wouldn't be any fun for your little cherubs to sit around with nothing to do. (Our Michelle still talks about your Myron using her for a dart board.)

I cannot believe there are so many circumstances converging to keep us apart. It was so hard to say good-bye to you the last time.

Please call us just before you come so I can bring you up to date on our plans.

Love, Billie

P.S. We may be moving.

GRACE REINGOLT

(Author of letter to the president of Roy's Sonic TV and Appliance Center regarding broken handle on refrigerator door)

June 4, 1982 Dear Roy:

On March 21 of this year, for no reason, the handle of our refrigerator door fell off. Neither my husband Stoney nor I was in the room at the time.

We called you the morning of March 2l, at which time your serviceman Duane came to check it out. He said there was no way the handle could have come off by itself, as the three-inch pin in it was bent double. Now I ask you, who do you think did it? Certainly not my husband or I, who were watching “Dukes of Hazzard,” and certainly not our four-year-old son Budro, who was swinging from the spare tire in his bedroom at the time of this unfortunate event.

You have always been fair in the past. You may recall when a tube of toothpaste for no reason manifested itself in the lint trap of our dryer and a live dog wearing pantyhose wrapped around the pulsator in the washer, obviously there before it left the factory.

I suppose you are used to these apparitions, but to us they smack of poltergeist. Wishing to save you the trouble of replacing the handle, we have contacted our insurance company who said it would have to be an act of God in order to make a claim. (He obviously has never had an evening when he was separated from his gusto by a door without a handle!)

I am sad to report the warranty ran out on the refrigerator eighteen years ago next month. However, knowing how you want to protect your reputation for fairness, we look for an early settlement at no cost to us, the victims.

Regards,

Grace Reingolt

MELISSA JOHNSEY

(Author of advance instructions to her mother

who will be babysitting Bo,

her six-week-old daughter)

Mom—

Please have more light bulbs for changing crib and bumper pads before Bo arrives. Last time the supply was inadequate.

Have on hand four boxes of daytime diapers for a 15-pound infant.

One gallon skim milk. Make sure the date is recent for freshness.

Plenty of moisturized towels and plastic bags for dirty diapers.

Bottles can be washed in the dishwasher. However, nipples and caps must be done by hand. Push water through hole in nipple to make sure it works. Gas bubbles can be painful to an infant.

Phisoderm soap.

Vanilla ice cream.

Two plastic pails and a large basket for laundry. Commercial washer and dryer may be used.

No pets in room being occupied by the baby.

Phone must be off the hook while baby is sleeping.

Rectal thermometer should be shaken down after each use and stored in alcohol.

Do not place crib under duct.

Keep toys in plastic bag when not in use.

Sprinkle baby powder on hands and not direcUy on area to be powdered.

Be sure to put hand behind her head to support her.

Don't tickle, play hide-and-seek, or patty-cake in excess. Levity makes her spit up.

Check occasionally for fever. (Emergency numbers on separate sheet.)

It's your grandchild. Relax and enjoy her. The three hours will pass in no time.

Love,

Melissa