women, were able to do so. She was also a single mother at a time when it was socially taboo. She went to graduate school, and then worked as a counselor in a women’s prison for twenty-six years.
Tears didn’t well up in Glen’s eyes, but I could tell he was moved remembering her fortitude. She worked long hours, he said, but he always had a hot dinner, and never felt that he had to fend for himself. She created such a strong network of friends that he always felt he had three or four mothers. She gave him room, he continued, but she was also clear about her expectations. “I did well in school,” he said, “lettered in three sports, and almost died of mortification whenever I did something she didn’t approve.”
She wasn’t a saint, he said, but she made some choices to ensure that he would have a better life. “The most important thing she did was move us from New York to California, to give me a chance to grow up without the judgment that came with being a child born out of wedlock in a community where everyone gossiped.” He paused. “She let go of everything she knew, family, friends, community, to give me an opportunity to live free of that burden, and looking back now, I’m sure it saved my life.”
We kept talking about their relationship. Glen left graduate school just before getting his master’s degree to care for her when she was ill and then dying of cancer. At one point in the conversation, he said something that he often says when we discuss raising children and the state of masculinity: “Boys need their mothers.”
It wasn’t the first time we’ve talked about his mother and the decisions she made, but after the last encounter with my own mother, I can relate a little more to the idea of leaving what is familiar to create a happy life for your child. I can see the importance of making decisions that enable your child to be not just physically safe in an environment, but emotionally and psychologically safe as well. If the well-being of my own child doesn’t inspire me to break through my ambivalence about a person or situation and act more decisively, I have no idea what will.
August 2
I’ve started swimming. Tonight it was just a teenaged couple and me wading around in the fog. A few nights ago it was me and an older woman who swims every night at nine. Both swims were relaxing. I could see the lights of the city through the steam rising off the pool, and the water was soothing and warm. So far, the baby seems to love being in the water. I imagine he goes right to sleep as I stroke and glide.
On Saturday, I made the mistake of going swimming in the middle of the day, when the pool was overrun with, in my humble opinion, bratty, privileged kids. They bumped into me, swam across my lane, threw footballs over my head, and generally ran around paying no attention to anyone but themselves. I kept standing in the shallow end at the break in my laps so that their mothers would see that I was no ordinary lap swimmer, I was a pregnant lap swimmer, damn it. I deserved some modicum of respect, even if just for safety. But the mothers ignored me, too, and kept chatting and glancing approvingly at their kids as they whooped all around me.
The whole time I was thinking about how I will be with the baby, and how he will never be so rude and how I as a parent will never be so checked out. Then I thought, Well, maybe those moms are over there talking about their mastectomies or their husbands’ affairs. Maybe this is the first break they’ve had in weeks. Who knows? They could have been talking about their vacation in Tahiti, but I certainly felt less bitchy toward them when I imagined that they, like everyone else, have problems.
August 4
Glen and I went to have the amnio. We went, even though I was on the fence and even though if there were something wrong it would be too late to do anything about it. “Something wrong” being Down syndrome or worse. “Anything about it” being an
Tears didn’t well up in Glen’s eyes, but I could tell he was moved remembering her fortitude. She worked long hours, he said, but he always had a hot dinner, and never felt that he had to fend for himself. She created such a strong network of friends that he always felt he had three or four mothers. She gave him room, he continued, but she was also clear about her expectations. “I did well in school,” he said, “lettered in three sports, and almost died of mortification whenever I did something she didn’t approve.”
She wasn’t a saint, he said, but she made some choices to ensure that he would have a better life. “The most important thing she did was move us from New York to California, to give me a chance to grow up without the judgment that came with being a child born out of wedlock in a community where everyone gossiped.” He paused. “She let go of everything she knew, family, friends, community, to give me an opportunity to live free of that burden, and looking back now, I’m sure it saved my life.”
We kept talking about their relationship. Glen left graduate school just before getting his master’s degree to care for her when she was ill and then dying of cancer. At one point in the conversation, he said something that he often says when we discuss raising children and the state of masculinity: “Boys need their mothers.”
It wasn’t the first time we’ve talked about his mother and the decisions she made, but after the last encounter with my own mother, I can relate a little more to the idea of leaving what is familiar to create a happy life for your child. I can see the importance of making decisions that enable your child to be not just physically safe in an environment, but emotionally and psychologically safe as well. If the well-being of my own child doesn’t inspire me to break through my ambivalence about a person or situation and act more decisively, I have no idea what will.
August 2
I’ve started swimming. Tonight it was just a teenaged couple and me wading around in the fog. A few nights ago it was me and an older woman who swims every night at nine. Both swims were relaxing. I could see the lights of the city through the steam rising off the pool, and the water was soothing and warm. So far, the baby seems to love being in the water. I imagine he goes right to sleep as I stroke and glide.
On Saturday, I made the mistake of going swimming in the middle of the day, when the pool was overrun with, in my humble opinion, bratty, privileged kids. They bumped into me, swam across my lane, threw footballs over my head, and generally ran around paying no attention to anyone but themselves. I kept standing in the shallow end at the break in my laps so that their mothers would see that I was no ordinary lap swimmer, I was a pregnant lap swimmer, damn it. I deserved some modicum of respect, even if just for safety. But the mothers ignored me, too, and kept chatting and glancing approvingly at their kids as they whooped all around me.
The whole time I was thinking about how I will be with the baby, and how he will never be so rude and how I as a parent will never be so checked out. Then I thought, Well, maybe those moms are over there talking about their mastectomies or their husbands’ affairs. Maybe this is the first break they’ve had in weeks. Who knows? They could have been talking about their vacation in Tahiti, but I certainly felt less bitchy toward them when I imagined that they, like everyone else, have problems.
August 4
Glen and I went to have the amnio. We went, even though I was on the fence and even though if there were something wrong it would be too late to do anything about it. “Something wrong” being Down syndrome or worse. “Anything about it” being an
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