28 may 2006
The Ideal Mother
by Darcey Engen
Listen to an audio version of this essay
Every night in my son Severin’s first grade “take home” folder there are notices for dates and
events that I need to remember to attend and/or complete. Usually I need to fill out forms and mark the dates of events in my own calendar so that I don’t forget. I do my best. For example, this month there was a bus survey, grandparents day sign up, volunteer for good touch/bad touch presentation, library books due, book fair, art show and plant sale.
I somehow managed to do all that was expected of me while directing a production in the Theatre Department at Augsburg College where I teach. Everything except the plant sale. There had been a time change that I knew about, but neglected to write down in my planner. While I was at work one morning, I came across the large “time change” sheet
that had somehow gotten caught in between the pages of my calendar. I realized that I had missed the plant sale entirely. I had this image of my son telling everyone that his mom was going to come and buy some seedlings. I could see him
waiting for me to walk through the multi purpose room door. Then I never came....
I called the school and asked innocently if the plant sale was still going on. They said no. But there were a few seedlings in the staff lunchroom. I was welcome to pick them up if I wished. So I did. I left work, and drove to Wilshire Park, found the plants and went back to the car to go pick up my younger son, Simon, at Montessori. When Severin got home from school at 4:00, I told him that I did get some plants. He said, “You did?! How come you didn’t come to my table?” I explained that the time got changed and that I missed it. I told him how the office helped me find the last plants later in the day. “Okay!” he said. “What did you get?! Oh, Mom, the “t” means “tomato!” Cool! I can’t wait to plant them!!” He was fine. After all my anxiety and attempts to make it all better, he seemed perfectly comfortable with the truth of my mix up.
Part of the reason why I missed the plant sale was because of my intense directing schedule. When I direct a theatrical production, my schedule explodes. I teach two classes and spend 25-30 hours a week directing—mostly in the evenings. Those six weeks I’m just not home. Plain and simple.
This year, maybe because the boys are older or that we had such superior childcare, I have had some time to think about the guilt and anxiety I feel when I am away. I feel guilty because my idea of a good mother is someone who is
there after school and at night—every night. I also feel guilty because I am happy to go to rehearsal. What does
that say about me as a mother? When I’m working at rehearsal and in the moment with my students I am free of
guilt. But when I drive home I’m racked because it was the babysitter that practiced spelling with Severin,
fixed dinner, read Harry Potter, and turned on the night-light. The thing that worries me is that despite my inner turmoil, I love doing it.
Remarkably, throughout this six-week period we are not seeing any problems. We aren’t experiencing tantrums, bad dreams or any kind of behavioral repercussions. In fact, the boys seem to handle it just fine. When I leave for rehearsal Simon has begun to say “break a leg, Mom!” or “Have a great rehearsal! See you in the morning!”—undaunted by my leaving.
One evening last May, I took the boys to a senior’s performance recital at Augsburg. One of my students that I recruited and spent four years with was leaving and I had taken the boys with me to attend his final performance. When it was over and while we were driving home, I said out loud in the car “I just can’t believe those students are graduating. I can’t believe they are done.” And Simon, my five year old, said “Don’t worry Mom, there will be new students next fall, and remember—talent is always a part of your soul.” I was shocked. I was blown away. Tears started to well in my eyes and I cried. Severin said, “What he means, Mom, is that new students will come and you can teach them.” I pulled the car over and turned to the back seat. I blubbered to them how much I loved them and how smart they were and how grateful I was that I got to be their mom.
We drove the last happy block in silence and when home, started our routine of bath, book and so on. While we were doing what we always do, I was seeing them, seeing what we do, seeing this life we have, as pure joy and magic. Even the usual complaints were golden.
After the tasks were completed, we all lay on our backs on the bottom bunk and took turns saying what we were grateful for. They drifted a bit, and I tiptoed out and went downstairs. I sat down on my chair and thought that it must be true that children choose their parents for some particular reason: to learn a lesson or to teach a lesson. There I was, earlier in the day, feeling like the worst and the busiest of moms, and then, out of the blue, they say these wise things. In the car. To comfort me. My children, reminding me of the value of my relationship with my students. My five and seven year old reminding ME of the cycle of my job: that new opportunities will begin again.
Despite my idealized notion of what I think a good mother is, my children accept me as I am: schedule and all. It’s true what I said in that day in the car.
I am honored and grateful to be their mother. Ironically, my children have become the best teachers.
Darcey Engen is an assistant theatre professor at Augsburg College in Minneapolis, MN. She is the mom to two young boys, Severin and Simon. |
