MOTHER

MOTHERS PICKING UP MOTHERS

          A little while ago, Trent announced: “I want to go to the library, the one with the rabbit game on the “’puter,” and I had thought maybe it would do me good to get out of the house. I envy him for knowing exactly what he wants. No one but Trent could have persuaded me to go out in the car at this moment. It is monsooning out there.

          Fifteen minutes later, we cruise into a library car park that is tricky to find since it is invisible from the street. I capture the parking space closest to the library doors and feel downright gifted.

          As Trent runs to the heavy glass doors a woman comes out, and I suppresses the urge to boast about where I am parked. Two mothers are sticking their kids into green rain gear that makes them look like shiny little frogs. One mother opens the door for Trent and me while holding onto a child and continuing a conversation. I like women who can do three things at once. I also like women who are friendly to stranger mothers and I give her a big thank you as Trent rushes ahead. I haul myself up the flight of stairs thinking about how mothers pick up mothers. There’s an unappreciated art to it, I believe.

At the top of the stairs are four notice boards clamoring for attention. I scan the fliers and scraps of paper seeking anything that might improve my life. I wonder if I could offer a class on how mothers pick up mothers. I follow Trent into the children’s room and remove his raincoat. I sink into a shabby armchair upholstered in a faded cottage rose fabric, and Trent disappears inside a wooden playhouse, dragging an oversized bear behind him.

          I fantasize about addressing a room full of lonely mothers, newly arrived from other parts of the country, looking to me for salvation. “There will be two important questions you must learn to ask and to answer,” I imagine myself saying from a highly polished wooden stage lined with alternate pots of yellow and white chrysanthemums. “‘Where are you from?’ and ‘What do you do?’ These are deceptively simple questions that can make a marked woman of you in seconds flat. Whatever you do, don’t go for complete honesty. That is definitely not the point. When you first meet a mother in your newly adopted town, she doesn’t actually care where the hell you came from. The subtext to the ‘Where’ question is this: Are you like me? And the subtext to the other question, the ‘Do’ question, is also: Are you like me?

          “So, the first thing you do in a sandpit, playground, playgroup, or library situation is to take care who you talk to. Ask yourself these two questions: If this woman had not reproduced at the same time as me, would I want to know her? and, Do I want this person to think she is like me? If you don’t really like this woman and you pretend you do, you will soon be denying large parts of yourself and getting unbearably bored as the woman drones on and on about things you never, ever wanted to hear about. Also, when scouting for a playground mate, try to approach a woman you wouldn’t mind being seen dead with. You may end up hanging out with this woman and her offspring in places that make you look dead: McDonald’s, for example.

          “So, the task is to present yourself as being a worthy investment of time and effort. The more interesting the targeted woman, the less time she has for the likes of you. Of course, it really helps if your kid isn’t a whinny little brat or a bully, but compensating for monstrous children goes beyond the scope of my talk today.

          “Let me tell you how my own particular answer to the ‘Where’ question evolved. When I first moved to Massachusetts and was so desperate for attention I could have stood on the roof of my car and screamed out the American national anthem in the pouring rain, I had to be careful not to gush. Once upon a time, I believed people wanted a full answer to the “Where” question. But I got bad reactions to my litany of rootlessness. I now think the best answer for me is this: ‘How long have you got?’ Of course, depending on how desperate you are for a friend, you might just say the name of the state in which you now reside. This challenges no one and keeps the talk local, which sits well with many mothers. Naturally, foreigners, like me, have to own the alien thing.”

          Just as my imaginary audience breaks into laughter, I see Trent and a girl wearing pale pink pajamas showing early signs of a face-off. I reluctantly raise myself up and out of the armchair. The pajama-girl is holding some kind of electronic game behind her back.

          “It’s mine!” she says.

          “Use your words, Trent,” I say. He takes a quick look at me, turns back to face his pink opponent, and says:“I’m going to hit you!” Then he smacks her. The girl screams and I shoot targeted stares for the pajama girl’s mother.

          “Are you OK? I’m sorry he hit you.” The tot stares back fiercely. “Hitting is never the right thing to do, Trent. Say you are sorry. You two must use your words to get what you want.”

          “Can I see your game? I said that!” says Trent. The girl walks away and out of the Children’s Room — presumably, she knows where her parent is. “But what if a bad man is trying to take me away and I hit him?” he continues. What if I hit you right now, I think.

          “Well, a bad man? That’s different, of course, but don’t hit little girls,” I say. “Now, take a turn on the computer: Isn’t that what we came here for?” Soon Trent is trapping garish-colored rabbits. I return to the comfy armchair but my eyes stay on Trent. I wonder if I should have told him not to even hit a bad man because the bad man could grab his arm and stuff him in the trunk of a beaten up car. I watch him playing so happily and decide to delay that lecture for another year. And so I return to my fantasy lecture.

          “Now, the ‘Do’ question is harder. What you do is more important than where you do it — unless you are learning a useful trade in a maximum-security institution, of course. 

          “A word of advice: don’t treat the ‘What do you do?’ question like an opening gambit from a therapist. Don’t pause and luxuriate in the fact that someone on this great, green Earth wants to hear all about you. Don’t imagine that you have a full 50-minute session in which to explore all the avenues. Keep a grip. The person who just asked you what you do is currently looking after two kids under the age of five in a playground. If you desire a high-flying career in this world of playgrounds, you must master the sound-bite.

          “When a mother I’d like to know (a M.I.L.K) asks me what I do, I simply say, ‘I write,’ in as dismissive a tone as is humanly possible. I say it in the same voice I might say, ‘I do dishes,’ or ‘I floss.’ Saying that I write children’s picture books is something I put up front. If a mother finds that off-putting and show-offy, so be it. Some mothers only want to associate with mothers who do not earn any money at all. Any of you part-timers or freelancers out there should know that you might threaten the full-timers.

          “When my interest in another woman is returned, I relax. I think of myself as almost in the position of a man picking up a woman. As a rule, when I start feeling like a man, I know I am doing very well indeed. I don’t know if it will work this way for you.

          “I must admit that I judge a woman by how she answers the ‘Do’ question. I pity those who say, ‘I just look after the kids’ because they woefully underestimate the value of their job. I avoid those who say, ‘I chair the hospitality team for the P.T.O. I bake and bake and bake!’ Those who say, ‘I used to be a whatever,’ might prove interesting and capable of talking about more than nap schedules. Those who say, ‘It’s difficult to say!’ are my favorites. It is difficult to say. However, it is very important to know what you do and to feel good about it — especially if you do it for about a decade. So, try to find some mothers who are willing to talk about the difficulty and importance of answering that ‘Do’ question and you will soon be in the company of good friends.”

          Despite being outnumbered by an influx of sneezing kids with runny noses, I feel the unfamiliar, faint throb of her distant ego: I have enjoyed my fantasy. I spot a tall, red-haired woman wearing an African batik-looking jacket. Her kids have red hair like Trent. As I decide how to pick up this woman, the librarian lets out a gigantic sneeze, which causes me to look at the main desk and notice the clock.

          “Oh my!” I say, loud enough to be overheard by the red-headed batik woman, “It’s 2:30 already! We have to rush home. My soap starts at 3!” I smile at the woman and at my deliberate mockery of a life with no fixed or dignified schedule.

          “I had no idea of the time!” the red-haired woman responds, in mock panic, “Kids! Let’s go!” We laugh together. I confess to Tivo-ing it. We enjoy talking about how our kids might go to group therapy sessions to recover from the effects of watching soap opera at such early ages. We exchange phone numbers.

          When I get home, I dutifully transfer my new friend’s name and number into my red address book: Ann Clarke. I add a note, “Can laugh at herself.”

copyright 2016 by author, Annabelle Howard