When our kids are small, we spend much of our time creating a safe environment for them to grow.  We are careful about what they eat, where they go, what they see–we even peek at them when they’re sleeping in their own beds, just in case.  But well-raised children are curious about the world, make plans that extend far beyond ours, and have the confidence to create lives of their own.   If we’re lucky, we are one of the first they call with their triumphs, and we serve as back-up for problems they could not solve themselves.

I’ve been talking with my students about the importance of myths in our lives–the stories that help us deal with the inevitables.  My story for the 80-year-old woman who died in her sleep is that she was lucky to pass so peacefully.  But I have no story for the young couple who happened to be on the wrong highway at the wrong time.  I feel helpless when I think of the parents of these kids–my heart aches, and I know that there is nothing anyone could say to comfort me if I were in their place. 

The only story I know for these losses is one that’s been around for thousands of years.  Death is inevitable, the moment impossible to determine.  But we do have time with these people who enter our lives.  We don’t spend it fearing its end–that’s the same as wasting it.  We are fully present when a person is in front of us, we give and take what the relationship will allow, and we say what we need him or her to know. 

Those who are gone are at peace; we need to make sure that we who remain can find that, too.

My family always had a telephone in the house, but I don’t think I had an answering machine until I began my first teaching job in Monterey.  If someone needed to talk to me, they had to keep calling until I was home–same for me with them.  Somehow, things worked out.  I probably got email sometime in the ’90’s and I’ll have to admit, it’s my favorite form of communication–I can check it when I’m ready.  When I lived in Tennessee, I never worried about answering the phone–three children in the house–but when I lived on my own again in California, I set my answering machine to two rings and rarely picked up the phone “live” unless it sounded urgent.  I got a cell phone around five or six years ago, but most of the time, it sits in the car.  I have to admit that a cell phone has made traveling much easier–especially the airport pick-up–and it’s comforting in case my car breaks down, but I buy minutes once a year–I just don’t use it too much.

I’m not sure how I would have handled cell phones, IM, Facebook, and the Internet in general when my children were young.  I probably would have done the same as TV–limited their “live” viewing time to a couple of hours a week.  The girls could watch movies or programs on the VCR, but mostly they were outside playing or as teenagers, in their rooms listening to music, reading, writing or talking.  I’ve talked to parents who cannot control their kids’ texting, emailing, surfing.  I’ve talked to teachers who have problems with kids surreptitiously text-messaging in class, I’ve talked to kids who cannot live without their cell phones on their person as all times.  This all worries me.  Sometimes it seems like Myspace and Facebook are like quick get-rich schemes–instant fame for just exposing oneself–”I have 350 friends!”  I don’t even know what that means.

But another thought is that the technology has ways to release us, too.  I know my family had a TV when we first moved to San Jose when I was five–my brothers and I were definitely addicts–undiscriminating, for the most part, in our viewing because there were only a few channels.  When the girls were little, I used to get them in bed by 7:30, partly to have adult time, but also because if we wanted to watch Masterpiece Theater or something more grown-up, we had to be in front of the TV when it aired–we didn’t own a VCR until we moved to Tennessee.  As soon as we got one, I became quite proficient at scanning the program listings and taping favorite shows.  We could watch these when we had time, skip commercials, and stop watching TV to talk to someone who needed to be heard–even now, I rarely watch “live” TV.

We woke up this morning listening to NPR Sunday morning–far less disturbing news, far more interesting interviews about art, life, books, etc.  As I lay there, I thought that it would be nice to have this playing as I ate breakfast, but then I love to read the paper in the morning.  Too bad it can’t be recorded, but then I realized that it can be downloaded.  The technology has made it so we can access almost anything, save it, and listen/view when we have the time. 

I know I do not want to be accessible every waking moment, but it’s wonderful to stay in touch.  We control the technology, it does not control us.  Just like food, just because it’s there doesn’t mean we have to partake; and just like food, extremes are always unhealthy.  Either your life works or it doesn’t.

I’ve always been at odds with the greeting card images of females throughout every stage of my life.  I grew up in a male household–a patriarch, 3 brothers, and a mother who would give in.  I knew what I was supposed to do as a member of the family–serve and obey–but mostly I wasn’t supposed to cause trouble.  Go along.  Put yourself second, third, fourth.  Instead I fought and moved out as soon as I could.  I put my heart and mind into being a good mother, but as the girls grew up and needed me less, I realized that I was repeating the same patterns from my childhood; I allowed myself to step back into the river and drift until the current swept me away.

So, I’m a mom who lives two time zones from her kids.  After a rough start, we’re finding our way–the girls and I talk at least once a week on the phone and email often.  When we’re together, we easily fall back into that closeness.  But I wish I was nearby when they’re sick or have too much to do, and hopefully, we’ll have this travel thing figured out by the time they have children. 

Lately I’ve been calling myself “the wordy pilgrim”–I’ve always been on a quest to find and protect my authentic self, and I talk way too much about what I’ve discovered and what I’ve lost.   It may seem that I have thoroughly rejected the beliefs of my parents, but there is no doubt that I can recognize my father’s gait in my stride and my mother’s wonder in my heart. I hold onto their myths that work in my life, and I let the rest of them slide (leaving only the tiniest smudge of guilt as they go).  

I’m no longer running away and I haven’t stopped searching.  Our challenge is to figure out how we can stay close from a distance, stay linked in our freedom, and find the path that leads us home and away at the same time. 

I was 28 when Delaney was born; I liked the idea of making a family someday, but I had just quit my job and was planning a cross country trip in an old VW with the girls’ father “to look for America.” Then we found out I was pregnant and everything changed. We were thrilled and I have never regretted having children – I often tell expectant parents that you will never fall in love again like you will with your babies – and Delaney was my first healthy, all-consuming love affair.

I approached motherhood in the same way I take on any new challenge; I studied, planned, and organized my home and myself. If I was going to do this, I was going to give myself over to it completely. I had been a teacher for a few years and had begun to build a reputation as having a way with even the most difficult teenagers. A baby would be a piece of cake.

What threw me was the fact that motherhood was a 24-hour gig – I’m sure I intellectually understood that, but I was not prepared for the fact that for the next seven years, I would rarely experience anything close to a full-night’s sleep. Also, I’m the type of person who works hard when I’m on the job, but I need privacy and quiet every day to refuel. Babies don’t understand that. And I solve problems and create relationships with words. Luckily, Delaney was verbal at a very young age, but there were definite parameters to our conversations. Often, when I was home with a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a newborn, I felt like I was just surviving, which made me feel guilty. I thought I should be reveling in this experience. I have a sister-in-law who lamented the fact that her babies would become children who would become adults. I couldn’t wait for my kids to grow up.

But the odd thing was, from all accounts, I did a pretty good job as a mom. I was far from perfect, painfully human, but my daughters tell me that when they have kids, they’ll use me as one of their role models. I think that’s the greatest compliment I’ll ever receive.

I do know that we don’t raise children on the side; even if we’re working parents, our first commitment must be to our children. When you’re submerged in toddler-land, it can seem like you’ve lost your identity or your dreams, but the time period that kids need your full attention is shorter than you think. Well-raised kids get on with their lives, so the day will come when all they need from you is your interest and encouragement.

I often tell my students that no one teaches us how to parent. Most of us will do what we observed as children. As a mother, I embraced my father’s example of consistency and my mother’s example of unconditional love; but I struggled with my father’s inflexibility and my mother’s martyrdom. Without question, parenting is the best and most difficult work I’ve ever done. In the following pages, I’ll share with you what I learned.