Dearest P,
I fear I haven’t managed to read the entire book–devoted as I am to hearth, home and manicures at the moment. I did have the occasion, however, just today, to overhear a mother lunching with her preschool age son who was trying to explain to him how she would become his primary caregiver. Nearly brought tears to my eyes as I witnessed this virgin take her first innocent steps toward her descent into full-time mommy madness.
You see, dear P, not so many years ago, I remember calling the other P and leaving her a message indicating I was joining the ranks of the stay-at-home moms–keeper of all things sacred and holy. Unfortunately I think she thought I knew what I was doing. In the midwest, you see, it is much less acceptable to be home and have a nanny too. So there I was, faced with my cherubs all day, every day, wondering how they were to be groomed and fed. Once I picked up the pieces of my shattered existence and realized that I must have something to do with their daily routines, and started drinking regularly by 3pm, things improved. Especially when I returned to the office. I must confess, however, that I secretly believed the only difference between working and staying home was that my children would appreciate me more, not in fact, as is the case, much less.
As I watched the woman today, I realized how naive and tangled is the web we mothers weave for ourselves. Her little boy, god bless him, kept chanting, "I want Rosie, I want Rosie,"–clearly the nanny soon to abandon him. I wanted to shake the mother and tell her my story. It is clear I should have encouraged her to raid the 401-k if necessary but if she insisted on leaving the office she should definitely keep dear Rosie. I did none of these things, however, as I found her constant attempts at banter with her young son grated on my nerves and knew she never would have believed she didn’t have all the answers. I only hope her deflowering experience is less painful than mine. Actually, that’s not true at all: I relish the idea that women of an especially annoying East Coast breed get a reality check on a subject they know almost nothing about: their own children.
Faithfully,
C.
