Some of you may recall Peg Barber’s engaging column in The Eastern Shore Milestone in the mid-2000s. An ex-New Yorker and Dow Jones exec, Peg enjoyed a decade on the Eastern Shore before she moved to North Carolina. But never fear, she’s just around the internet corner and is back with us—and so is her wicked sense of humor and poignant insight into our daily lives. Enjoy.
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Sometimes I feel sorry for Her Serene Highness Elizabeth II. She may own half the real estate in Europe and be pampered by a cast of thousands, but all that pomp and privilege hasn’t given her a single kid to kvell over. Three are divorced from ex-mates eager to escape the palace. Her daughter could personally spoon-feed every starving waif in Africa and still not get the kind of worshipful press the late Princess Diana enjoyed. The youngest prince has taken up life upon the wicked stage; the second is rumored to exhibit zipper issues, and the heir to the throne is a hapless dork and is not approaching his dotage in a royal manner.
Contrast her vast support system with the frenzied grind of professionals balancing stressful jobs and the demands of domesticity day by exhausting day, with nary a tweenie or footman. Further contrast it with the grit and stamina of “ordinary” homemakers bringing up stalwart citizens against the staggering obstacles of today’s complex culture with its incessant material focus and juvenile peer pressure. Besides warming the hearth, many mothers are also the primary breadwinner, either going solo or during a partner’s layoff or doctoral pursuit. Many use their “spare time” for home-schooling as our public education system continues to collapse. When I visit such women, I want to genuflect.
Consider those raising “acquired” children. I once worked with a journalist who flew to Colombia to claim two sons and a daughter. Another colleague’s path to parenthood began in the local classifieds. Say a prayer on Mother’s Day for those who’ve lost a child to illness or misadventure, or because they went soldiering, never to return. Toss a rose to stepmothers, who climb aboard midstream to play catch-up, and let’s praise foster mothers, who take on the whole program knowing they will someday surrender their babies to strangers. While we’re at it, raise a cheer for gay men and women in committed relationships who are breaking new ground in parenting.
What defines motherhood, anyway? Giving birth isn’t half of it, and it’s clearly not a requirement. “Natural” or arranged, it’s going overnight from being somebody’s little girl to being somebody’s primary caregiver, and putting another’s needs ahead of your own forever after. It’s choices: Pampers or cloth, nursing or formula, Beech-Nut or the blender, wagon or minivan, pre-school or play group; public schools or private (or the dining-room table); ballet or piano, soccer or basketball, paid chores or allowances, day camp or sleep-away, home-town or Ivy League, and so on ad infinitum. It’s primitive pictures all over the fridge, PB&J all over the woodwork, Play-Doh ground into the carpets. It’s kissing away minor injuries, breaking up fistfights, and swatting little butts when they stray into traffic or torment the cat. It’s installing snowboots on tiny legs of Jello, only to pull them off for a potty break moments later. It’s lying awake all night when they’re infants, to be sure they’re breathing, and lying awake all night when they’re teenagers, to be sure they make it home with the family car.
It’s dressing twins differently, so they’ll develop as individuals. It’s finding space in a studio apartment for a 10-speed, a drum set, two guitars and a drafting table. It’s moonlighting so they can have tutoring in math or Spanish. It’s blowing up balloons, hunting up birthday-party favors, checking homework in newly minted topics. It’s scheduling meals around after-school sports, play dates or Bible classes; karate or Drama Club; scout meetings or band rehearsals; art, music, or riding lessons, or all of the above – the midnight supper. It’s celebrating small victories, or biting your tongue at disappointments until your mouth bleeds. According to an old e-mail, it’s budgeting, menu planning, chauffeuring, laundry upkeep, “floor maintenance and other janitorial work,” mending, simple household repairs, fashion and cosmetic know-how, sports savvy, medical and psychiatric services – all through on-the-job training, as there is no rehearsal for it whatsoever in the life that leads up to it.
It’s watching miniature savages mature into productive, civilized adults – or not, in which case it’s lavishing affection and loyalty on a shiftless bum. It’s a giggle a day when they’re learning to talk (we still call strawberries “store buddies” around here), and it’s weeping into your pillow when nobody’s watching, because everything you bring to the challenge doesn’t seem like nearly enough. And just when you think you can put your feet up and relax with a glass of wine, somebody strolls into the living room and says, “Mom, let’s plan my wedding.”
Why do we pursue this punishing exercise? Well, some of us don’t, of course, and lots of people lead rich, full lives absent the pitter-patter of little feet. A music teacher I knew in New York considered her students her “children,” and sent quite a few talented virtuosi out into the world without ever changing a diaper. For those who prefer to grow their own, theories abound. Sociologists studying teen pregnancy speculate that girls want live baby-dolls to love them back. (Good luck with that! As Margaret Mead once observed, babies aren’t grateful.) Scholars of the psyche think it’s either a brush with immortality, a desire to leave traces of ourselves behind after we pass on; or a sort of “second chance” at life, the opportunity to nurture someone who might succeed at things we missed out on. The days of biology as destiny being over, the birth rate nevertheless continues to thrive, likewise the stampede to adoption. Maybe it’s because nothing else we do, whether in partnerships or alone, as doctors or lawyers, executives or engineers, pilots, pop stars or politicians, seems quite so adventurous, so rich in surprise, so utterly worthwhile. Or maybe it’s just because they’re so damned cute, and because giving love is even better than getting it.
And that poor woman in Buckingham Palace has missed the whole thrilling ride. No wonder the paparazzi rarely catch her smiling.
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