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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Column
Optimistic complaints
Of course, mothers think -- and every once in a while they even complain.
By Sallie Tisdale
[07/01/99]

Postnuptial blues
After the wedding bells stopped ringing, she wanted nothing but sleep.
By Ellie Forgotson
[06/30/99]

The write time
One classmate is on her way to literary fame, anointed by the New Yorker; the other's on her way to the grocery store.
By Tracy Mayor
[06/29/99]

Problem family
When domestic abuse showed up in my neighborhood, I had to decide whether to help or keep my distance.
By Jill Wolfson
[06/28/99]

The tyranny of fashion
As clothing comes to signify less and less about a person, I wonder if I should bother getting dressed at all.
By Erin J. Aubry
[06/25/99]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

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Draped in towels, we loll about on the worn, wooden benches, our muscles spent from the miles swum that morning. We are content in our semi-naked, dozy state, like cats on a sill, eking out the final moments of the morning. When each of us left our homes nearly four hours ago, the town was still asleep, dotted with dewy geraniums and curled morning papers. Since we have swum lap after endless lap, kicking and pulling our way along the black lines of the cool water, the day has begun. The sun is now high, its heat becoming concentrated in the clear Midwestern sky, radiating down into the roofless locker room. Outside, a gaggle of small children have assembled, waiting for their lessons. Survival float. Side stroke. We ignore their high-pitched voices as we brush out unruly hair and munch on peanut-butter sandwiches, soft plums and foil-covered Pop-Tarts. We are ravenous, ready for early and ample lunches in our air-conditioned homes. The older among us will continue on to summer jobs and boyfriends, while others have hours of television and board games ahead. But for many, for me, the best part of the day is over. The rest is mere dressing, just time to be passed before the next morning workout, before the next weekend meet.

What comes next? I can hardly see the rest of the day after those brilliantly clear mornings. As I biked home up the steep hill, day lilies and the grasping branches of maples and oaks brushed against me. The house was cool and dark; just the dog and the hum of the refrigerator greeted me. After lunch, but not long enough for my suit to totally dry, I'd turn around, coasting downhill, biking back to the same pool. But this time I'd meet my school friends there. We'd lay our towels out on the sun deck, apply baby oil and listen to the Commodores and Donna Summer on tiny transistor radios. At the concession stand we bought Sugar Daddies, malted ice cream and those long taffies that turned brittle when dipped into pop. Grabbing for Nerf balls, boys dunked us and our bodies met underwater, curious moments filled with yearning and aversion. But all of these memories are like that: murky, underwater moments unfolding in slow motion. The screaming, splashing cacophony is muted, replaced by the slosh of water on my eardrums.

No matter how hard I try to conjure my adolescent summer afternoons, I certainly cannot recall any images of my school-day girlfriends in that same sunny locker room. We didn't linger on the benches as I did with my swimming teammates. There was no feline idleness, no semi-clothed stretching of muscles or combing of hair. No doubt we were as Victorian in our changing methods as we were at school. There in the old underground locker room of our centenarian building, we showered in dank, dark stalls, first walking over a grate that sprayed an acrid chemical onto our feet. Even at age 12 I thought the scene had a wartime quality: our naked bodies lined up and forced through the paces as a matronly guard called each name from a list. Dripping wet, we'd stand as close to our lockers as possible, shielding our bodies from the eyes of others, the eyes of girls we didn't know as well, the eyes of friends, the eyes of boys on the other side of the small door who were reported to peek through the keyhole. I don't think any of us ever really dried ourselves, so hasty were we to be covered, to be back in our familiar clothes. So now, it is only shame and anxiety that I can recall about these girls unclothed, not their tanned arms, the white of their bellies, the sinew of their legs.

Next page | A 4-year-old boy named Conifer stares at me naked