So obviously I’ve been becoming increasingly introspective lately. (See recent post below). This may be boring for you blog readers that come to see cute pictures or funny stories of our kid. Sorry. Bear with me. Currently, Stella is in the “I can’t handle you saying no to me so I’m going to lay myself on the floor and scream” phase which is not at all cute or funny. It is, in fact, frustrating and exhausting.
But with the third trimester starting next week in my pregnancy (how the heck did we get there so quickly??!!) I have been thinking a lot about motherhood, about daughters, and about how those daughters will grow into young women in this society that we live in. Not only have I been pondering their future, but also our collective past, the women that also make up who they are, their grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and so on. What type of influences have they had on the way I have chosen to live my life? How might they influences the girls? (wow, feels really wild to say that… the girls…sorry. still getting used to it.)
My grandmother never went to college. She graduated in June 1929. When did the crash happen? Yup. October 1929. Pretty sucky time to be 18 and want to make something of yourself. And being 7 of 9 kids in upstate New York, well, college was a luxury one couldn’t really afford. You can fill in the rest of the Great Depression narrative. But going to school was important to my grandmother and she made sure that her 3 children went to college. And now those three children all have Masters degrees. Pretty awesome, I think. She was also a spitfire. Even in the last years of her life, debilitated by a stroke, her mind was quick, her comments witty, and her jokes piercing. I’d like to think that Stella has that spitfire in her as well. I also know she gets a double dose of it because Steve’s grandma (Ruth, Stella’s appropriate middle name) was also a ball of energy and fire. I wish I could sew and knit voraciously as my grandma did, but I do have her entire collection of knitting needles that remind me each time I make something, I’m continuing a long tradition.
Which brings me to my mom. I am lucky in that the book “All I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten” directly applies to my life because my mom was/is a kindergarten teacher. How awesome is that? So really and truly, even if she wasn’t *really* my kindergarten teacher, I learned all I really needed to know from her. How to be compassionate. How to share. How to be nice to friends. How to be silly. How to think of others. How to make someone feel special. How to always give hugs just when you need it. How to love reading. How to love singing songs. I know I wouldn’t be the mom I am today without her as a model. What does Stella love to do most? Sing silly songs. (Um, like all the time). Read. Give big hugs. I talk to my mom almost every day. I think Steve was a little taken aback by this years ago. (Really? You call your mom every day?) But she’s one of my best friends. I feel the need to check in, tell her what’s going on, and she graciously listens to each little detail, no matter how small, and this, these stolen moments on cell phone minutes, keeps me sane. It’s like a big mom hug over the phone. A reminder that I’m doing ok. That I’m following in the path of a long line of women who loved their families so much at times that maybe they should have loved themselves a bit more. (Isn’t that what we do as women though?) But in the loving comes acceptance, for who you are and what you are capable of. Part of a family of women who chose motherhood not to complete themselves, but to to move themselves in ways they knew not how, and in the doing, found a great joy.
But this is not just about my upbringing or my mom’s or grandma’s upbringing, but also about how I am just who I am. Which is nothing that my mom or grandma or great-grandma really had anything to do with. Sure, my Babci (my dad’s grandma) was an amazing cook and maybe some of my skills extend from there, but she did it because she had to. And that’s what women did. They cooked to feed their families, especially large Polish ones. I cook to feed my family but I also do it because I love it. Really, no one spends 2 hours in the kitchen making only five 8oz jars of blood orange marmalade on a Sunday afternoon because they really *have* to do it. But the pressure I put on myself to always get things right? The high standards to which I hold myself accountable? The internal drive to always be doing something, researching anything new? Nope. That’s all me. My hard-wiring, if you will. Maybe my schooling had something to do with it and the constant desire to be as good or better than my peers (who were all so good to begin with, it was really hard to compete!) The arts, and now for me, academia, does that to you…nothing like auditions and call backs to make you want to be better than someone else so you can get the part. Nothing like fighting 200 people for a job that you know you could do with your eyes closed if someone just gave you the chance.
And now to the future. To a little girl who currently has used all of our clean washcloths and hand towels to cover her stuffed animals up with blankets before they go to bed, including the plastic fish in the bathtub. Yes. Really. That was not me teaching her that, I can tell you that much. She has, as of late, been found at preschool each pick up wearing sparkly dress-up clothes. That she might have got from me… But what of a few years down the road? What of middle school? She must grow into an independent woman just as my family let me do the same. It’s not that I want to shield her from the world, but as a female in our society, advanced though it has become since my grandma’s time, how do I teach her to love her body for what it is? To always believe that women are as smart and savvy as men? To demand as much respect in the world, the workplace, the home, as she deserves? I feel I learned those things from the women in my family (oh the stories of how my mom bested –secretly and not so secretly - the administration at her school are worth a memoir in itself. I’m serious. It would sell like hotcakes.) I can only hope that Stella – and Bittle – will find their own way, with a long line of strong women behind them.
Ride ‘em cowgirl.
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