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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Wild Thing
How do I know I'm really me?
Children ask the big questions, and these dreamy books venture to answer.
By Polly Shulman
[09/28/99]

Thelma and Louise it wasn't
When you can't vacation without them, the kids can come too. Just change your expectations and leave your husbands behind.
By Mona Gable
[09/27/99]

Where have all the Eddie Haskells gone?
The daughter of a cool mom attempts to carry on the tradition, only to find that there are no smarmy, well-groomed takers for her act.
By Karen Karbo
[09/24/99]

Give me a dick or give me death!
Today I am a femme with an inner soft butch, but as a child, I failed to meet the demands of either gender.
By Kera Bolonik
[09/23/99]

Shopping online -- for children
For children who have waited years for a family to adopt them, the Internet may be the last hope.
By Nell Bernstein
[09/22/99]

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Today we are discussing a novel titled "Persian Nights" by Diane Johnson. It is the story of Chloe, a surgeon's wife and at-home mother in Southern California. Chloe is an arranger of activities for her husband and children. Like many such mothers, she has begun to feel like a bit player in others' lives. Her husband plans a trip to Iran in the weeks preceeding the Shah's downfall, and, ever the accessory, Chloe finagles an art-history fellowship from a local museum so that she can accompany him.

In Iran, Chloe experiences an awakening of her political self. At personal risk, she helps the "Westernized" wife of an Iranian doctor to flee the country with her children. But Chloe is unable to sustain her newfound activism. As the assassinations and arrests increase, she takes a lover and establishes a domestic routine similar to the one she left in California. Ultimately, she returns home facing divorce, the possible loss of her children and no way to support herself. Not exactly like the women in my book group, perhaps, but Chloe is still too close for comfort.

A grave silence settles over the five of us, smart women who fear we've made a stupid choice. The possibility of widowhood seems distant compared to the threat of divorce. Feminists warn us that, in either event, having stayed at home is economic hara-kari. And three of us, including me, who still navigate the detritus of our parents' divorces, have intimate knowledge of its costs.

Fueling our discomfort is the perception that staying at home with our children is a betrayal of our professional training. After all, you don't need a degree to be an at-home mother. We all encounter those who assume that we were never serious about doing anything else. I'll never forget the parting comment of one of my Harvard Law School classmates: "Don't worry about which area to practice," he said. "Soon you'll be home changing diapers."

Culturally, the skewed attitudes about at-home motherhood seem to proliferate. Though politicians bemoan the decline of family values, there is little support for parents who curtail their working lives for their children's benefit. The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal have published articles referring to at-home mothers as executive "status symbols," a label that demeans the work we do and the sacrifices we make. In movies like "One True Thing" and "Stepmom," the mother who raises her children at home fades away, swanlike, stricken by cancer, while the younger career woman flourishes. These movies function like health warnings: Work makes women stronger; stay-at-home motherhood is carcinogenic.

I pose this scenario for the group: "Maybe we are like Chloe, seeking shelter from social change in domestic routine. The majority of mothers work outside the home now. They've stayed true to the cause of the sexual revolution. Maybe we wimped out, sold out."

Before I finish, the group shouts me down. As usual, our monthly meeting veers into the One True Discussion: How to balance parental duty with personal ambition. The others counsel patience; they still believe that, after years at home, they can return to meaningful careers. I am buoyed by their optimism, but not long after they depart, and I gather the fruit salad and coffee mugs, the doubts return.

I know they mean well, but they just don't get it. My life is a revolution, interrupted. When the civil-rights movement told me that I was somebody, implying that I could be somebody greater still, I took that message as a calling. When the women's movement threw down the gauntlet and challenged me to have it all, I went for it. I believed in those movements; I was a part of them.

And now I am supposed to wait? For what? To sell real estate at 50-something?

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