A feminist mother who takes time away from paid work has probably thought about the dynamics of her own situation more than some random judgmental stranger has. But that doesn’t stop random strangers from assuming that “stay-at-home moms” are anti-feminist in their very being if not in their (delusional) motivations or self-identification. Perhaps I should say “our very being” and “our delusional self-identifications”: although I do not identify as a stay-at-home mom, and although my temporary exit from the paid workforce has had far more to do with the unemployment rate and the absence of flexible schedules in professional jobs than with my own desires, the reality is that I spend my days with an infant and a young child.

I am not an anomaly. Many—most—“stay-at-home” and “working” mothers move between these two categories over the months and years. Most face “choices” that are highly constrained by economic and other structural realities. The terms themselves imply an absurd degree of difference: “Stay-at-home parents” don’t actually stay at home (we are allowed out into our communities!). Although SAHMs are sometimes called “full-time mothers,” working parents are not somehow “part-time parents.” “Working moms” are not the only mothers who work: “stay-at-home moms” do the work of parenting and often care for others in the community, volunteer, write, plan businesses, freelance, etc.

The compromises we make as parents and as workers are complicated, personal, and often painful. It does not help for self-proclaimed feminists to act as though a particular category of mothers has selfishly betrayed the sisterhood.

a beloved book from childhood

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L’Engle.  I vividly remember buying this book.  I was browsing at the local used book store with my dad on a summer afternoon, rummaging through the 50-cent kids’ books in paper boxes, and he pulled this one out.  I was reluctant, since the image and blurb on the back seemed ominous (far more than the book deserved, in fact).  I was not a brave reader, at age 10 or so.  My dad encouraged and prodded until I bought it, along with the turn-of-the-century children’s books I always found intriguing in their dusty, original bindings – Tom Swift and His Flying Machine, and Marjorie May’s Birthday.  I still feel nostalgic for all of those used bookstore purchases, and that old-book smell, but L’Engle’s book stood the test of time and many, many readings.

what that says about that child

This book, once I had read it through and stopped worrying about what would happen to the characters, became the most reassuring book in my shelf, and I read it regularly, at least through high school.  I loved it for so many reasons.  How could I not love a story about a smart girl with glasses who saves her family and gets the boy?  L’Engle created a gentle, sweet romance, just my speed.  Her protagonist, Meg, did not sacrifice her intelligence or her personality to attract a kind, handsome and brilliant guy.  And it was a story about a close, loving family.  So many stories for adolescents seem to need to kill off the parents and leave the protagonist orphaned, so that she can grow up and find her own path.  I enjoyed plenty of those stories, but I identified with L’Engle’s protagonist, Meg, who is close to her parents and her brothers.  I found great comfort in a story than depicted a tight-knit family, and showed siblings taking care of each other.  I also appreciated her spirituality-through-science-fiction approach.  I think this book reflected the mix of values I grew up with, and it was reassuring to see someone else value them too: tight-knit and thoughtfully committed family, an earnest if not specifically religious spirituality, and a do-it-your-own-way intelligence and creativity that was honored within the family, even if it was not always well understood or appreciated at school.

a children’s book worth sharing enthusiastically now

I would still absolutely recommend A Wrinkle in Time.  One children’s book that I really appreciated recently, but wouldn’t have when I was 10, is Roald Dahl’s The Witches.  I listened to a marvelous recording, with Lynn Redgrave reading, on a long car trip with my 8 and 5-year-old sons recently.  This is one of the genre where the protagonist gets orphaned, right off the bat. And part of what appeals to me so much now is what would have been hard for me to take as a kid: it has a rather ambiguous, semi-happy ending, optimistic in the face of what are clearly challenging circumstances.  In this story, the protagonist ends up turned into a mouse, permanently.  He (I only knew it was “he” about 45 minutes in, thanks to Redgrave’s wonderful reading) gets caught by the witches, turned into a mouse, and then plots with his crusty Norwegian grandmother to turn the tables.  At the end, he and his grandmother have concluded that in the 8 or 9 years they have left in their lives, they will have adventures hunting and destroying the Grand High Witch, and put an end to witches forever.

what that says about this reader’s evolution

I listened to my kids talk about the story, and my 8-year old had real trouble with an ending that wasn’t quite “happily ever after.”  My 5-year old could accept it, though.  If the protagonist says he’s ready to make the best of it as a mouse, and a mouse with part of his tail cut off by a carving knife at that, he’s satisfied.  Right at this moment in my life, I took comfort in a story about feeling damaged, permanently altered by the exigencies of life, and yet making the best of it and going on.  As I reach middle age, this is reality.  What happens between when we’re 5, and we can accept this story, and when we’re 40 and we have no choice but to start accepting it?  I suspect that this is a peculiarly American problem, of thinking the ending can’t be happy if it isn’t perfect.  I wonder if I had heard more stories like Dahl’s, if I would have grown into and through adulthood with more flexible expectations.  I value resilience now in a way that I did not as a child, and it’s a value I would like to share with my kids.

He means breastmilk. As in, I am so hungry! Why are you not feeding me? We all call nursing “milkies,” and “mamamama!” seems to be about as close as his little mouth can get right now. I’m not Mama, but what he wants from me is.

Have you seen this piece on why words very close to mama appear in so many languages around the world? It’s drawing on linguist Roman Jakobson’s 1962 essay “Why Mama and Papa?,” which the author calls “the definitive study on ‘mama’ and ‘papa’ as universal terms.” (I don’t know the literature, but I’m guessing this is actually a theory and that it’s far from definitive! Like everything in every scholarly field. But whatever.) The newer piece nutshells:

Babies can make vowel sounds (cries) from day one. And they do. Constantly. As they begin to experiment with making other noises, babies will test some of the easier consonant sounds. Usually they start with the sounds made with closed lips, or “labial sounds” such as /m/ /p/ /b/. Babies summon their energy to push out that new consonant sound “MMMM” and then relax into an open mouth vowel, usually “ah” — which is the easiest. When you combine that with a baby’s natural repetition in speech, or “babbling,” you get ” ma-ma”, “ba-ba” “pa-pa,” and so on.

So why do babies gravitate to the “m” sound instead of “p” or “b”? Because of breasts, of course! The “m” sound is the easiest for a baby mouth to make when wrapped around a warm delicious breast. Even as adults, we still associate “mmm” with something being yummy and good. So does your baby.

Jakobson’s work suggest that your baby has no idea your name is Mama, (or Dada for that matter). [...] It means “food.”

At least for Simon, that appears to hold quite true.

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Oh, how I oversimplify. Here’s the more complex truth: Simon has pretty clearly been saying “ball” for a while now—though more like “ba!”—definitely for balls and maybe for toys more generally. (He used to just call everything ba, but no longer.) And “mamama,” “mama,” or just “ma!” for breastmilk, aka milkies. And we think “da” for dog, too, but he also seems to say something very similar for “that” (pointing at various things of interest). He probably started saying words around the beginning of May, and his first word was probably ball. It’s funny: this time, I’m baffled as to how people identity a “first word” on a particular date, even though I think we did that for Noah without lots of confusion and uncertainty (though, granted, we now know we were wrong about it: video footage suggests Noah was speaking quite a bit before Eric and I admitted it).