“MOM!” It was about as urgent as a teenage boy is willing to sound. But I’m writing.
“MOM!” I hear it again, so I leave my office and run upstairs to find out what’s got my son riled up. He’s standing in the hallway outside of his bathroom. He points to the skylight and I see it–a wasp the size of a hummingbird. I could swear that I heard it cackling.
It’s up too high to reach even with the vacuum attachment, the ladder is hard to get up the stairs, and I have no idea where to find the bug spray. On top of it all, I’m allergic to wasps, and I just don’t have the time to deal with it at the moment.
So I close the bathroom door. I tell my son to use mine for now, and when his Dad gets home to let him know that “tag, he’s it.” I start back downstairs and my son says, “Really? That’s all you’re going to do. Close the door? I could have done that myself.”
Exactly.
It happens every day. I go to my office, sit down, start to type… and I’m interrupted. It’s like my keyboard emits a signal that only my son or husband can hear, that says, now would be a good time to discuss why the Patriots should have gone to the Superbowl.
Poof. The idea is gone. Sure, I can strike the flint again and set the tinder aflame. But it’s not the same spark. I can’t help but wonder what might have been.
So why do I let it happen? Why does my family think that it’s okay to interrupt when I’m working? It’s not that they aren’t supportive. They are. And I don’t underestimate the value of that support, especially when, in business terms, I’m a non-performing asset.
The blame goes to the very top of the org chart. It’s my own fault for setting the expectation that I’m available. I have always worried about making everyone happy, twisted myself into a pretzel to be sure everyone had what they needed. I’ve shown through my actions, time and time again, that I valued their needs over my own. I can’t blame them for taking me at my word. I’m very convincing.
But things have changed. I’ve changed. I’ve put dynamite to the dam, and now that the water is flowing, it will go where it wants.
So what do I have to do to show them otherwise? That I’m not available at the moment, but I still love them as always. I’m still the same wife, the same mother. I still see them as irreplaceable and invaluable, but not right now.
And in one of those moments of clarity while pondering the terrifically complicated, the simple answer emerges.
All I have to do is close the door. They know it will open again soon enough.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my son’s bathroom. My husband’s in charge of that one.
Great essay Jeannine. One artist I admire has her studio set up in her garage not for lack of space but because she has four children (ages 4-16) who need to know she’s at work. She keeps disciplined working hours and takes herself extremely seriously as a professional. She gives seminars on occasion and has great stories to tell of how someone will ask her, “So, are you still doing the art thing?” she will say, “Why yes. Are you still doing the lawyer thing?”
Thanks Veronica! It’s a complex tangle isn’t it — the combination of gender, motherhood status and the nature of an artistic career that leads others to see our vocation as “that thing we do.” Physical boundaries do help one maintain emotional ones as well–that “room of one’s own.” I could learn a few great lessons from your friend, and I’m guessing a few more from you as well. Since my son provides me with so much material to write about, I’m willing to cut him a little bit of slack, unless the muse is speaking or he wants help with Chemistry homework. Then, he’s out of luck.
Ah, Jeannine – again your words sing across the miles and nestle in my heart! When my kids were younger, I put up a sign on the outside of the door: MOM IS WRITING. When my youngest just could not stand another moment away from me, I invited her in – under the condition that she draw or write with her own paper and pencil. And not interrupt me. It worked – briefly- and in very short spurts at a sitting. But it also de-mystified the sense of my isolation from her imminent needs and assured her that I was in fact available. It also allowed me to be mom AND writer at the same time! Don’t I wish all life’s little challenges could be so easily solved. Oh, and speaking of providing writing prompts – she (my baby) turns 21 tomorrow. Now THAT’s a lot to write about.
Sarah, what a great way to recognize and respond to your daughter’s need to know that you were there by bringing her into your world. It’s brilliant, really. I’ll bet that even at 21, she remembers those days of writing with you, the quiet (even short-lived) the feel of pencil against paper, the energy of ideas in the air. I really like that way of thinking–I don’t close the door to keep him out, I close it to keep the words from getting away.