A Daughter’s Mother
It took me over two years to get pregnant. My (ex)husband and I did everything short of IVF. We didn’t have the money for a procedure that at the time – the early 90s – wasn’t covered by our insurance. We were also a bit afraid of IVF, which seemed complicated and invasive, so we turned to “easier” options. Those weren’t so easy, as it turned out: hormones, Pergonal shots injected into my rump, acupuncture and herbs steeped to make a rancid-smelling tea.
At-home pregnancy tests came up negative. Blood tests at the OB’s office were equally disappointing. But during one, my characteristically collapsing, slow-pumping veins pushed blood into the vial more enthusiastically. The thought crossed my mind that the extra energy might be from another human inside me…and I was right. That test was positive. Finally, we were pregnant! We were ecstatic.
All I ever wanted to be was a mom and a writer. I had some success with the latter and now was hoping for success with the former (the former was more important). We already had names picked out: Jake (not Jacob) and Izabel (“Izzy” for short) – simple, kind of Jewish-y monikers with middle names after deceased grandparents as Judaism encourages, though Yom Kippur fasting was the most religion we practiced. And to be honest, I didn’t really even do that because I had spent over a decade of my life starving myself.
Which brings me to why I cried when I saw my ultrasound. Tears of fear, not joy. Our first baby would not be a boy as we had planned. I was having a girl.
I cried because when I grew up there were rules. I’m not sure I ever heard them specifically described, but they were apparent. Girls smiled, were quiet and made nice. Boys laughed, were raucous and made the world turn. Most of the girls I knew didn’t move through life with the ease and confidence of boys. My dad was proud that his report card displayed all D’s and that he got detention for calling his teacher a communist, then became a successful businessman. My mom waxed poetic about being a cheerleader and sorority sister, then became my dad’s wife. They were high school sweethearts who married when they were twenty-one, starting a family before they really even knew themselves. I was their first child; by the time my siblings were born, my parents’ marriage was becoming a disaster area. My mom was not making nice and my dad could not make her world turn. Their troubles were their focus.
I felt terrified in every way, though I hid it with overachievements. I would count how many people smiled at me each day, twisting myself into a pretzel to be loved and accepted. My mom had no siblings, so in a way, I was her sister. And I didn’t want my own siblings to be afraid at home. The reality was: I felt powerless, which manifested in an eating disorder.
Anorexia isn’t always about striving for perfection (though I loathed my flaws). The disease is often about controlling a chaotic life and failing to take care of yourself because you’ve spent so much time taking care of others. I could blame it on Cosmopolitan magazine’s Grapefruit Diet, which demanded half a grapefruit at every meal until I made sure there were no meals, only grapefruit. I could blame it on my mom who, when I went to the pediatrician at ten and was told I was overweight, gave me an apple and a slice of American cheese for school lunch every day while the other kids ate cafeteria sloppy joes and fish sticks. I could blame it on my dad, who said that he and I were the “faces,” and my thin mother and sister were the “bods.” But after spending three months in a hospital rehab program with a garden variety of addicts, many addicted to food – eating too much of it or not enough – I needed to move on from blame and into recovery.
At twenty-five, I arrived at that hospital with little body fat and even less of a pulse. I was told I was close to dead as the staff stuck me in a wheelchair. Those twelve weeks were the best and worst weeks of my life. Living in a hospital is different than today’s swanky rehab facilities. But all I had to do was be me: wake up, eat the breakfast put on a tray for me, go to group therapy, take a walk, eat the lunch put on a tray for me, do some art, write in a journal, eat the dinner put on a tray for me, go to a meeting, and lights out. I didn’t need to be smart, funny, talented, productive, resourceful or “delightful,” which was how my mom described me as a baby…I was a “superstar,” according to my dad. I found their words empty for a host of reasons, even if the intention behind them was good.
After the hospital, I initially looked at my world with fresh eyes. I had a support system: therapists, groups and Twelve-Step Meetings. I went to work as an assistant to TV producers and executives, had my most dysfunctional romantic relationship and was regularly man-handled and sexually-harassed like many women in the entertainment industry at the time. I suffered the familiar and sickening feeling that my job was to make others happy – as it was with my parents. I starved myself again, but soon found the man who would become the father of my kids. I gained some health but still struggled until the day I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. After my fearful tears, I vowed to never practice disordered eating or obsessive exercise behavior again. The word “fat” was forbidden in my house.
Just short of nine months later, Izabel was born. She came out eyes open, mouth moving, legs and arms swinging like she was ready to take on the world. And from Moment One, she did just that. As a child, she was spirited – and yes, delightful, despite spending her Terrible Twos being, well, “terrible.” But those tantrums – the ones that caused me to abandon shopping carts at the grocery store or sit in the car in a parking lot until she tuckered herself out so her rigid body relaxed enough for me to secure her in her baby seat – those tantrums passed. At first I thought her screaming, crying and rolling around on the ground was because I was bad – a bad mother, a bad person. But I continued to do the only thing that felt absolutely right: love her.
I never put my own upsets on her – and there were some doozies after her dad and I broke up because, like my parents, we grew apart. When I was having a tough time, I explained that it had nothing to do with her or her brother – and I kept their lives as consistent as possible. Their dad did, too. I do not believe you can love a child too much. Call me coddling, or even smothering, but I can count on one hand the fights I’ve had with my daughter. We talk. I listen. I don’t judge. With gentle honesty, I have shared with her my past internal and external struggles. I encourage my daughter in all her imperfect glory and I make sure that she knows she doesn’t need to “smile and make nice.” Most of all, I want her to be 100% solid in the fact that I have her back, because I understand the terror of a freefall growing up.
My original family has broken completely apart, so my goal is that ours is strong, even though her dad and I are no longer married. Family in all its forms is the comforting cushion for young people in a world that is tenuous and overwhelming.
My daughter and I chat about the manipulating and filtering pervasive on social media, where Barbie shapes are flaunted. But I don’t dwell on it because she doesn’t. That’s the surface stuff, the stuff that truly doesn’t mean anything, because there are bigger fish to fry. To her, for the most part, food is fuel and fun. She loves to work out because it makes her feel good. Does she have moments of insecurity or body frustration? Absolutely. Does she spiral like I used to? No. She will share those moments with me and we walk through them, looking for self-affirming solutions. Inside, I am crushed when she doesn’t fully love herself. But I also know that lofty goal is unrealistic.
Today, at twenty-five, my daughter barely ever loses her temper like she did during those brief toddler years. She is still spirited and strong, smart, articulate and measured in her responses. She doesn’t shy away from conflict (sometimes, to my dismay, she walks head-first into it). She is taking on the world with her music and writing. She might not tantrum, but she finds her anger perfectly acceptable, especially lately, when women are treated as if they should succumb to chaos and let others control them. She will not be controlled, and she has hope that other women will speak loudly enough with her to maintain control of their own lives and their own bodies. They are not powerless. They can make the world turn, and they are.
My daughter never liked the name Izabel, so a couple years ago, she legally changed her name to Izzy. She didn’t worry if that hurt my feelings or her dad’s – and it didn’t, because we want her to feel like herself for herself. I did end up with a Jake, too – and he is a proud story for another day. I still cry when I think about Izzy, but now my tears are because I am so grateful and wholeheartedly in awe of her. I can easily recall the fear of finding out she would be my first child, but would not change the order of life for anything. I have suffered wounds and fought battles, but all my challenges made me a mother who understands that love is the most meaningful nourishment you can feed your children…and yourself.
About the Author
All Janna King ever wanted was to be a mom and writer. She is lucky to have reached both those goals, with two kids, two novels, produced TV and film and most recently, plays. Her daughter is often her co-writer and her son has come up with a very funny screenplay idea, so there’s that. Janna wishes she had writers block because there is not enough time in the day to play with everything and everyone in her head. She also teaches, is a volunteer at 826LA and co-founded www.thebroad.life, a blog for anyone over 40.
Related Posts
All roads go back to mom →
Housebitch →
Mothering Through Attachment Strain →
