The Real Story
I’ve been trying to figure out when this story really began, and where. What was it really about?
Maybe it started right there, in the cozy Children’s Room of the cozy Library in our cozy Greater Boston Suburban Town, on that Late Summer Afternoon in 2014:
A Simple Story about a Blunder and its Consequences
Or maybe it started just before that, with:
A Mishap at the Local Bakery
But I felt like it started earlier that day, with getting-the-kids-up-and-organized-giving-them-breakfast-gathering-toys-and-snacks-piling-into-the-car-and-then-the-driving … driving … driving …
A Story of the Dedication and Exhaustion of Motherhood
But if it’s a story about Motherhood, then it began long before that day, and even before the late night seven years prior when my first child was born. It began decades earlier, during my childhood in 1970s rural Storrs, Connecticut—with long afternoons playing outside until our mom called “Dinner!” from the back patio. My best friend lived half a mile down the road, and at five years old, I’d walk to her house all by myself.
I started to get a sense of what the…
Rules and Norms of Motherhood
… could be during those early times. But as the years went by, and I grew into adolescence and adulthood, I encountered a variety of other messages, implied by such terms as:
The 1980s Latchkey Kid, whose mom was absent during those critical after-school hours.
The 1990s Helicopter Mom, whose kids never had a moment’s independence.
The 2000s Overprotective Mom, whose kids grew up fearful and risk-averse.
Not to mention the Soccer Mom, the Tiger Mom, and the “How Does She Do It?” Supermom …
I tried to keep it all in perspective during my first pregnancy (at age 39, defined by the medical community as AMA: Advanced Maternal Age, with its heightened level of risk), during bed rest (prescribed at Week 35 due to PIH: Pregnancy-Induced Hypertension, and its accompanying label of HRP: High-Risk Pregnancy), during childbirth (the first of my two C-sections, a Surgical Delivery, and not the Natural Childbirth recommended in the birthing books), and during nursing (Breastmilk Is “Liquid Gold,” the experts told me) and weaning (Too Early to Maximize the Benefits of Breastfeeding). And I was even more determined to keep perspective as I watched my first child, and three years later his little sister, learn to crawl and then to walk (the first child Right On Time, according to the charts, but the second child decidedly Late).
What I wanted most was to craft…
My Own Story of Motherhood
…apart from all the charts and trends and expert recommendations. I wanted to get to know my kids as individuals, and the best part was watching their unique stories emerge.
My first child loved numbers from, well, seemingly from birth. So when he was three years old, I added an extra layer of fun to our bedtime reading. “Here’s something really cool,” I’d say, pointing to double-digit page numbers in an anthology of stories. “Sometimes when you have two numbers together, you get to say “tee” between them. See? Four-tee-five. Six-tee-seven.”
My kid’s eyes grew big and round. He loved the challenge of it, and the sense that he was in on something complicated and advanced.
But when his little sister reached that age, and I tried the same thing with her—“Look, when the four and two are together you get to say four-tee-two!”—she looked everywhere around the room except at the numbers I was pointing to. It was only when I said, “Aww look, the four and the two are friends!” that her ears pricked up, and she looked down to see what the four and the two were up to.
One thing I wanted for both of them, though, was to learn Spanish, and not because:
Early Childhood Is the Best Time To Begin a Second Language
Okay, maybe it was partly that—a touch of Soccer Mom with a Tiger Mom intellectual twist to it. But it was mainly because my husband’s first language was Spanish and we have a lot of Spanish-speaking relatives. Now, I am far from fluent, and after a few basic Mommy-and-Me style classes, the kids were ready for something more advanced. After a long search, I was overjoyed to find a Spanish Immersion Program … located thirty miles away. A long commute, but I decided we could manage it for one week that—
Summer of 2014
The kids grumbled each morning as I rushed them out to the car in time to sit in traffic for an hour. My older kid, now seven years old, was particularly prickly about it all. I told him he’d love the Challenge of it—speaking lots of Spanish, feeling himself Improving! But it turned out the program was only good for his four-year-old sister. The little kids stayed in one group and spent the day singing songs, playing games, and doing crafts, all in Spanish. The older kids were organized by Spanish level, with the feeling that only kids who were Already Fluent were Ready To Speak Spanish all day. In my kid’s group, they spoke mostly English.
By the end of the week, we were exhausted and demoralized by the sense that all the rushing and driving wasn’t really worth it after all. So that Friday, I told the kids we’d do something special when we got back. We’d get a yummy snack from our local bakery, D’Amici’s, and then we’d go to one of our favorite places, The Library.
And maybe it was that combination of exhaustion and relief, as we sat there munching our D’Amici’s cookies, that led me to break one of my cardinal rules—and not just a Rule of Motherhood, a Rule of Life:
Never sling your purse over the back of your chair when out for a meal or a snack.
Because you will inevitably forget you put it there, and walk out without it.
Of course, we were already in the Library Children’s Room, that cozy space of colorful books and posters, of comfy chairs and toys, when I realized my mistake.
“Oh great,” I moaned. “This is just what I need. Perfect timing!” And I dragged the kids back outside before the four-year-old could throw a tantrum.
“Why do we need to get your purse?” my seven-year-old protested, dragging his feet on the ground. “Can’t you just go?”
“Of course not!” The words were right there on the tip of my tongue. Because: Of course not! You’re a little kid. Anything could happen!
But then I stopped … and I did what I didn’t do at D’Amici’s, when I so carelessly left without my purse. I thought about it.
D’Amici’s was only a two-minute drive from the library. I couldn’t leave my four-year-old behind, that was certain … but could I leave the seven-year-old? I looked at his eager face, so ready for the challenge, for just a little bit of independence. And the library was so familiar, so comfortable. We’d been there so many times.
Well, I thought. I can drag him over to D’Amici’s, Helicopter Mom-style. Or I can take this moment, this small, safe moment, to let go, just a little.
“Well … okay,” I told him. “But you need to sit right on the bench near the front desk and wait for me. I will be right back!”
I made sure he was safely back inside before his sister and I left. And I actually felt kind of silly doing even that. The door was right there; he didn’t need his mommy to walk him in. That Overprotective Mom inside can be so hard to overcome sometimes!
Well, Supermom took over then, flying over to D’Amici’s with her trusty four-year-old sidekick in tow! She snapped the purse off the back of the chair right where Absentminded Mom had left it (Phew!), and in a flash, she was back at the Library! She dashed across the parking lot, into the door, and down the stairs to the Children’s Room, where her older child was dutifully waiting! (Hoo-ray!)
But then…
Three … Librarians … marched forth from three different directions. Eyes flaming. Voices sharp and cold.
“HOW COULD YOU LEAVE YOUR CHILD LIKE THAT?!”
“THIS IS A PUBLIC SPACE! IT’S NOT SAFE!”
“DON’T YOU KNOW THE RULES? NO CHILDREN ARE TO BE LEFT WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION!”
Supermom … melted … into Chastened Child … tongue-tied … fighting tears …
(But not a Chastened Child from the 1970s. Because this was definitely not the 1970s.)
What could I say in return? What could I tell my children? The only thing I knew for certain was the part about the Library Rules. They were right up there on the wall where you couldn’t miss them—where I had missed them:
No Children Are To Be Left Without Adult Supervision
When I found my voice again, I reassured the kids. “Don’t worry—no, you weren’t in danger. But the library has rules, and I shouldn’t have broken them.”
I asked my seven-year-old what happened. He said he had to go to the bathroom, so he asked the librarian for help unlocking the door. I told him, “That was Very Resourceful of you. Good job Taking Initiative!”
Then he explained that the librarian asked him where His Mommy was. So he told her, “She went to D’Amici’s.”
Oh. Of course. Right.
I wanted to explain to the librarians that they didn’t have the real story. I didn’t just drop off my kid and go out for coffee!
But then, what was The Real Story? The Central Conflict? The Theme?
Who was The Hero?
Who was The Villain?
The World May Never Know
About the Author
Audrey Markowitz is a writer, oboist, teacher of music and math, reader, thinker, questioner, wonderer. She probably spends too much time trying to figure out the why’s of it all. You can read more of her writing in Literary Mama.
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