Brave New World

There is an assumption I live with, a cozy little thing I feed a steady diet of hardly glanced-at headlines and confidence-boosting thoughts, like the  fact that the last time an enemy invaded America dentures could give you splinters.  I live with this assumption because it makes it easier to hop on planes, enter public places, and occasionally draw controversial cartoons.  Okay, so I’ve never done that last one.  But I live with it because we’re number one!  Or, at least, that’s what we were the last time I checked.  Like I said, I only glance at the headlines.

But, lately, my assumption isn’t doing so well—that rosy expectation I’ve cultivated over the years that terrorism, though a problem, will never reach my family has started to crumble.  The pictures of grief and fear in Paris bring other pictures to my mind—pictures of towers burning, smoke billowing, and people fleeing as firemen rushed toward danger.  When the Charlie Hedbo staff left for work the other day, they, like the people who worked on the upper floors of the World Trade Center, were expecting it to be just another day.  But it wasn’t.  It was their last day.

This grim reality has forced me to set aside my sunny assumption, and realize that if this could happen to them, it could happen to me or someone I love.  So what is a mother to do?  My first impulse is to retreat.  If other people’s children are going to be terrorists, mine are going to be bored—just a trip to the general store each morning for a few essentials and then back inside the bomb shelter.  The world is just too dangerous.  But, ah, the world—despite its perils it’s a beautiful place, and that beauty is something I want my children to not only see, but be.  I want them to claim this planet, to experience its wonders and make it a better place.  I want them to stand against it becoming the playground of thugs--a thing they cannot accomplish if I’m keeping them safe behind reinforced concrete.  Sure, there are certain places it would be foolish for them to visit (we’re not booking a family trip to Afghanistan,) but a kosher deli in Paris—they should be able to go there.  And so they must advance into the world, not retreat from it, because if other people’s children are going to take an oath to protect and defend our way of life, then the least I can do is teach mine to be brave.

 

While You Were Sleeping

Recently, while helping Peter [4] step into his underwear he said to me, “Why don’t you get a job?  You don’t do anything.”  I tried to tell him that my job was taking care of him, shaping his character so that he became a productive member of society, but this seemed to him a flimsy excuse.  And so it often is with the mom job—appreciation is in short supply.  Which is fine.  When Peter is sworn in as president that will be thanks enough.  Of course, on the day of his inauguration he’ll probably hand me an application and tell me that the White House kitchen staff is hiring.  “Seriously, Mom,” he’ll most likely say while patting my brittle shoulder, “you’ve schlepped long enough.  It’s time to get to work.”

So what is it that I do?  What does any Mom do?  One thing’s for sure, time is always in short supply.  Laundry, cleaning, errands, meal prep, etc. has a way of swallowing a day, leaving little time for anything else.  And yet, moms, more often than not, find ways to accomplish so much more.  Whether home schooling or running a cottage industry, stay-at-home moms have a stronger work ethic than my little man suspects.   Even I—Peter’s loafing mother—manage to squeeze in a little “work” during the course of the day, and next month proof of that work will be hitting LDS bookstores in the form of a romantic comedy entitled, Letters To My Future Husband (Cedar Fort.)  It’s been ten years since I’ve published in the LDS market—a dry spell Peter, no doubt, considers proof of my couch-potato ways.  But the truth is during that time I’ve been working—working on raising our family, and improving my craft. 

While Peter has slept, played, watched TV, and shouted for another bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I’ve written.  I’ve written in parks, at ballet rehearsals, and after-school car lines.  I’ve written when the house was quiet and when it’s been chaotic.  From start to finish it’s taken me roughly a year to write this book, and while I’m excited about the finished product, I know it’s unlikely to impress Peter, which is fine.  If that were my intention I would have started my own landscaping business, because nothing gets respect from him like a riding lawn mower.

Besides, I don't want respect.  I want sloppy kisses and bear hugs and shouts in the morning for me to come snuggle.  So I'll just continue doing "nothing," and writing when I get a chance, because job or not, I like the perks that come with it.