In my early, early 20s (my boy-jeans, beaded necklaces, and Birkenstock era) I had this stubbornly persistent, recurring vision of my future self.
She/I was always in a sunny kitchen, with my two dark-haired little boys. One was chubby and darling, somewhere between infant and toddler (that drooly wiggling gummy in-between, wet fingers stuffed in mouth). In the vision he was always, always on my hip, nuzzling my neck as I was on the phone (dark phone with a curly cord, attached to wall).
I was always on this phone, looking serious but calm, strangely calm. My other son was older, same beautiful dark hair, but running around, joyously wild. Maybe four years old? Five? There was always at least one large mellow male dog wandering about, as well, poking its muzzle hopefully into its stainless steel food bowl and sighing in the background. Waiting.
They all seemed to be waiting on me, but this was a phone call that could not wait. That was always clear. Sometimes I was fetching a snack for the younger son as I talked, but more often than not, I was simply rocking him on my hip, listening to the caller’s voice.
In this recurring vision, my hips were slimmer, though my chubby little guy never seemed to mind. My breasts were smaller, too, and I was a more serene, steady mother (and a younger mother) than I am today. I knew in the vision that I was a single mother, but was never quite sure how I’d gotten there. There was a sense that something had gone awry, maybe terribly, but that I was surrounded by vibrant boy energy, and would manage somehow, just fine, thank you very much.
So I was quite surprised (both times) when life presented me with two little girls. I was startled by this gift, and though I imagine I would have been crazy about two sons (and perhaps had an easier time of it, this parenting gig?), I recall thinking, Wow. TWO girls? Jackpot! And the guilt that flooded in immediately, as if I had abandoned these little boys that never had a chance to be mine.
The vision receded in time. It took its leave for good when the girls arrived on the scene and rewrote my life plan in crayon scrawls and lipsticked walls and princess squealing. Still, sometimes I wonder who those little boys were, who was on the phone, how I knew I was alone, that my sons were solely my responsibility. I wonder whom they went to, which mother has those handsome little guys now. I do feel like they are out there somewhere—change of plans, sorry, fellas, you’re headed to Cleveland—although this is a silly thing to admit. But my charm lies in admitting the silly things. Someone has to. So.
Now: I have a kitchen that is sunny for part of the day. The kitchen in the vision was much nicer than the kitchen I have right now. Don’t even get me started about the floor. There are two dogs: one foxlike, delicate and female; the other a gentle moose forever poking his big muzzle into his empty stainless steel food bowl. There is no wall phone, no phone at all in the kitchen, actually. I try to stay away from phones whenever possible. I can never say what I want to say. Checking messages frightens me. What good can come from phone messages or visions? Oy.
Now: I have taken to dancing with the girls in this kitchen. I wonder if the ghost of Mrs. Kitchen approves, if we get in her way as she reaches for the ghostly shortening, the sugar. The house has felt very empty of ghosts of late, and I have to admit, it adds to the loneliness I feel right now. At times I think they are disappointed in me. This is another funny thing to admit, worrying over whether or not the ghostly residents of your home are clucking in disapproval, have taken leave of you, despairing at your wrecked life. I am no Victorian or Edwardian mother. More flapperesque, and Mrs. Kitchen would likely have had no patience for that, all that shimmying when there were biscuits to be made and legs to be covered.
The girls and I dance, at least twice a week, like madwomen. Sophie and I dance to my iPod speakers until we are covered in sweat. She stopped mid-shimmy last week and said, “I’m going to have a heart attack!” I said, “A heart attack? Wait, seriously?” And then she was on me, age seven, climbing up onto me again, onto my hip.
“A heart attack of love,” she said.
And so we danced on.
When Hattie Belle joined us, Sophie took a break. She is not fond of sharing me with her younger sister. Hattie Belle opted for Cole Porter: “Too Darn Hot.” We shook and shimmied too, adding jazz hands, trading off solos, even working in some swing dancing—that infinitely cool WWII move where the guy swings the girl on either side of his body, over and over. The H-Belle loved it. I loved it, though I was sure the real heart attack might kick in during my ongoing heart attack of love.
My greatest ongoing lamentation as a mother is my inconsistency. My energy levels swing, swing, swing—there is so much to do, and resources of time and energy are finite. Sometimes their mother is in tears; other times, she is ready to dance them to the moon. I am not the rock I hoped I would be, the rock of my vision. I am fluid—literally, sometimes I arrive home in tears—and I don’t know how they will remember me. What their vision of their mother will be. I have no say in this.
I remember my own mother and my own grandmother as rocks. They made it look easy. I assumed I would find it the same—a cinch, a piece of cake (not before bed). But it is harder for me. And yet, I am hoping there is goodness, that memories are being created, that their future vision of me will not be as volatile or inconsistent as I feel. I hope they will remember dancing until the windows were steamed over, until the mac-and-cheese was cold, as the dogs barked at our flying feet. I hope they will forgive me my follies, my poor attempts at jazz hands, my heavy heart and heavy dance steps, my off-key notes. I do love to sing, and for now, they indulge me this, and sing along.
No one told me that visions only go so far. No one speaks of this at baby showers. No one speaks of the surprises that life serves up when you’re in the ladies’ room. Of course no one speaks of these things; no one would leave home. The only antidote is to color in the lines of your reality, and then to keep coloring, coloring wildly, madly sometimes, outside the lines. The head, well, it’s a helpful thing, certainly. But the heart, when surprises are on the menu, well—the heart is the way to go.
And if the heart says dancing to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” is the prayer of the day, then I say, let’s shake those bottoms, let’s belt out the lyrics we know, and let’s fudge what we don’t know, just as loudly. There will always be a need to fudge—life requires it.
And if you see my almost-boys, hug them for me. I’m sure you’re doing a great job with them out there in Cleveland. Amen to you.
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