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T A B L E_T A L K Are the gender police hoisting pink things on your baby girl? Discuss infant color-coding in the Mothers area of Table Talk ___________________ Craving a little peace and quiet?
Check out ashrams at barnesandnoble.com
R E C E N T L Y Drama Queen: The worst toys ever Sleeping in One mother's gain My mother's daughter The baby girl I gave away BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES - - - - - - - - - - Mamafesto
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WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY BREAKDOWN | PAGE 1, 2, 3
The yogis would have hated Party Pig too -- we had that in common. One yogi told me the only thing she missed at the ashram was people, her friends and family, who were far away. "When I go down to Boulder," she said, "I can never think of anything I want to do. I always come back early." I understood this, or thought I did -- how most of the things we get used to doing in the world, used to filling our time with, will seem boring and nonsensical, maybe even evil, after living a simpler life in the mountains for a while. Part of my crisis, the crisis that sent me to Alhambra, was a trivia overload. It feels like there is so much stuff to manage, to buy, when you have kids -- Pampers, high chair, stroller, bottles, jars, toys, a crib, a Porta-crib, car seats -- and each of these purchases seems to necessitate going somewhere horrifying, somewhere big and commercial with toxic smells and bright lights. Baby Depot. Babies "R" Us. Li'l Things. Later, when I first left Alhambra, I couldn't stand to go to stores, to hear the radio or see billboards or flashing lights. I completely surprised my husband by commenting on the sound of birds I could hear in our backyard and the luscious colors of the flowers he had growing. He has never known me to stop and smell the bluebonnets. The yogis say there's too much static in the modern, urban world to clearly hear your inner voice. I think they're right about this, at least about what had been happening to me. It had gotten so I couldn't trust myself at all, especially about how I would balance parenting and writing. And the frustrating thing was I had actually worked this out pretty well before my second son was born. When our first child was about 14 months old and finally sleeping through the night, things felt pretty good in our household -- no one was crazy, no one was visibly suffering, I was working some, my husband was working some, and our son was being taken care of. I figured we'd just merge our second son into the flow of things we already had going. Instead, I was completely bowled over by how hard everything was again. I felt demoted, back to my first terrifying, insecure days when my older son was a baby, and my husband and I duct-taped his diapers on before we figured out that it was the diaper cream on our fingers that was making the diaper tabs not stick. As a parent, you face these incredible challenges every day -- logistical, physical, emotional, intellectual -- and in this acutely challenged state, you have to somehow manage the unbelievable amount of judgment out there. To make matters worse, most of the judgment comes from, or is at least voiced by, other mothers. Would-be comrades-with-arms. Full arms. And some of the most intense judgments I've felt -- both coming at me, and coming from me -- are about really trivial matters. Do you use cloth diapers or paper? Does your child go to bed at 8 or 9? Do you take your child to Gymboree? Kindermusik? During my breakdown, my mind was spinning, trying to figure it all out, pick today's 100 right answers. People, intelligent people, act as if where your child gets his hair cut, what kind of aqua-socks he has, whether you let him watch "Barney" are life-or-death issues. I got completely caught up in the perfect-parenting frenzy, and it came close to driving me crazy. My husband always stops me here to ask: "Who? What people? Who, for God's sake, who?" And I don't know. I can't name names exactly. Well, if pushed, I could probably name a few. I do know that I'm not entirely paranoid. Mothers, even those who don't know each other that well, always compare notes. This is partially because parenting is so hard and everyone is desperate to figure out an easier way. But it's also because people want to justify their own choices through comparison. We might be bad off, but at least we're not using paper diapers. Mother talk is often about accouterments rather than feelings, particularly negative feelings like despair and anger. Things may suck, but there's a sick sort of comfort in seeing yourself as better, more wholesome and committed, than the Pamper-wielders and formula-dispensers. Of course, different values have cachet in different circles. I happen to operate in a very earthy, breast-feed-until-age-2 crowd, but every group has its own pecking order, and it's pretty apparent to each mother how she is failing to measure up. My second revelation at Alhambra was: Stop assuming criticism from other people, especially criticism of my parenting. It's hard, but I'm trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt now. Unless someone actually says, in so many words, "I have a problem with the fact that you weaned your son at 8 months instead of 24," I assume they think I'm a great mother. A stellar breast-feeder. A commercial corollary to my revelation was: Stop going to stores that make me feel nauseous. So what if I don't get the best and most bargain-priced stroller? I can use the wheelbarrow we already have and strap the baby in with the bungee cord that's lying in the back seat of our filthy car. Seriously, many of the things we think are essential items for kids are not. And you can't buy yourself out of the stress of parenting, no matter what the slick advertisements in those magazines in OB-GYN waiting rooms promise. My last realization at the ashram, which might seem contradictory, is that I love the world, all of it -- greed, nastiness, mental illness, even shopping malls. At least, I'm fascinated by it all, curious to figure out its appeal. I don't want to live in seclusion, even in the gorgeous mountains of Colorado. I'm a writer, and the stuff of the world is my material. I know now that I need to stop and smell real flowers, visit real mountains and limit the amount of toxic gunk I encounter in superstores. But I also know I don't want to live in a monastery -- literally or figuratively. I keep wondering, in my truly nosy way, What must have happened to the longtime residents at Alhambra to make them want to so completely renounce the world? What sordid family dramas must have gone on in suburban New Jersey? Dad trying to barbecue one of the kids? Mom whacking Dad with a golf club?
There's a lot of stuff in contemporary life that can send you over the
edge. And an ashram is one of the better places to try to recover, as far
as I see it. I'm really glad I took six days out to calm down and try to
hear my own thoughts -- schizophrenic as they were. And I'm glad I got the
hell out of there after six days. Being fucked-up and neurotic (in the
mildest, kindest sense of those words), and trying to figure out why, is
who I am.
Editor's note: The name of the ashram and those of the yogis have been changed. Faulkner Fox is a writer in Austin, Texas. She teaches poetry at the University of Texas.
Beautiful Dreamer Babies No. 1 and 2 had to suffer through less-than-perfect strollers. But Baby No. 3 will have the ideal ride -- that is, if there is a Baby No. 3.
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