Vicarious Motherhood

Vicarious Motherhood Amy Sumerton Rush around the house as soon as she arrives to elicit the image of being constantly in motion. Tidy things up, put the dishes in the washer. Wipe the kitchen counter. Chatter on about the same things: what rime he got up, what his mood is like. Discuss his bowels. Dig enthusiastically through your purse to make sure you "have everything." You are an epicenter. She, on the other hand, is a fuck-all English graduate with purple streaks in her hair who leaves Chekov and Joyce novels laying around; this is her leisurely reading. She is the type to tell everyone the truth and here you are in your power suit, coffee in one hand, fancy leather briefcase in the other, kissing your kid goodbye, and putting on your business smile. You are terrified of her. And she loves your kid; she is great with him. She loves your kid and he loves her back. Mainly, you need to focus on what you don't need to do: don't spend any part ofyour daypicturing them. Avoid picturing at all costs. Do not think of him possibly laying his head on her shoulder when she lifts him out of the crib after his nap. Or ofhim mistakenly calling her "Mama" and her not correcting him. People at the drug store complimenting her on what a gorgeous son she has. Do not think ofher making him laugh so hard—oh, the sound ofyout child's laughter—that he does that thing where he closes his eyes and just radiates a smile in her direction for a solid few minutes. Do not think ofhis little hand reaching up for hers as they take a walk through the woods. Slow dancing to your new Etta James CD. Having a picnic by the river with yellow and red leaves slowly fluttering down on an autumn breeze. Running at full tilt into her on a partly cloudy day—cumulus, painting the sky a fluffy landscape—in a field of wildflowers somewhere with those tiny Levis on that you got him last weekend, hugging her impulsively. Etc., etc. You really could drive yourselfover the edge widi thoughts like these. 17 18AMY SUMERTON Once a month or so, call the nanny and apologetically tell her that you need to stay late at work, is that okay? Tell yourselfyou are not asking permission. Do not stay late at work; instead, go to a movie. A romantic comedy. You hate romantic comedies and this one will be no different, but go anyway. Once you are in the theater, roll your eyes occasionally. This will make you feel better, that you aren't falling for it. Spend die film thinking about how contrived romantic comedies always are, how annoying the formula is. There is always the falling-in-love montage , the fight that later becomes an amusing misunderstanding. The kiss at the end. Your life was not like this. There was the fight—quite a few ofthem, actually—but no kiss at the end. As you leave the theater, vow to never again waste your time with diis genre. Go next month. On your birthday, you come home to what appears to be an empty house. You call into it and hear rustling and insistent whispering. Your child appears in the kitchen doorway straight ahead of you holding a sign that says "HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!" upside down. A hand and part of an arm appear and turn the sign around. There is more whispering. "Haa-ppy to yooou, haa-ppy to yoooooou, haa-ppy to yoooooooou!" he sings loudly and off key. Drop your purse without noticing it, and run to him, fall to your knees, laughing, hugging him. This is what it's about, you think. You made this little guy, this miracle. He's yours. Look at die nanny with shining eyes and thank her genuinely. You have no idea how she knew it was your birthday. The first time he cries when the nanny leaves, hold him and stare out ofthe window after her, watching her flip her purple hair to unlock her car, watching her start the car and drive away...