Floating On the Sea of Otherness
Madeleine plays big sister on Carter’s first day of school, September 2007
this essay will appear in bonsai form in the May 2008 issue of Good Housekeeping, available on April 15th
Nine forty-one, and finally, finally, my children are sound asleep. Now that they both can read, bedtime is especially hard. Why, oh why, they each want to know, can I not stay up until I finish this sentence, this chapter, this final one hundred pages? Everything feels unfair.
Tonight, I lie between them, their backs pressed into my side, their faces fanning out as I lace my arms around their tiny frames. For years, I slept whole nights like this, a regular human pretzel, listening, waiting for sleep to fall, hoping the next sentence would be the last, that this next breath would be the one sending them off to sweet dreams, so I could consider my own.
We are almost there, this night, when I notice something damp on my arm like dew. Soon this tiny drop becomes a steady quiet stream, and I realize my sweet Madeleine is crying.
“What is it?” I ask, noting at once the heaviness of her body next to mine.
“We’re so different from other families,” she says in a constrained tone. “We don’t have a TV. Or a dog. And we never remember to brush our teeth the way other families do.”
“It’s true,” I say, feeling her grief. Oh the sorrows of being nine! I want to rise to our defense, and add my own items to the list. I want to say that yes we are different, but that different can be good. That, unlike other families, we go to faraway places like Africa for adventures. And that we eat dinner almost every night with our neighbors who feel like family. And that we think rice pudding is a legitimate breakfast food–all virtues in my book. But now is not the time. She is adrift in a sea of our otherness, and it will only make matters worse if I let her drift out there alone.
We hold each other for a little while, lamenting the lack-of-a-dog part especially. I imagine with her how lovely it would be to have a TV, to watch it with her dog curled up in her lap–even though I know the battles over shows and boundaries would drive me slowly insane. I vow to create a chart in the morning for teeth brushing, like the very organized and orderly mothers. I silently swear to be more normal, to remember early release day, to not be so distracted when I clean out the backpack or help with homework. I hold on to the hope that it’s not too late to change, that even tomorrow is not too late.
I remember at Madeleine’s age, feeling rather proud of my family and all the ways we could never classify as much like other families. My whole life my mother mourned our differences–the fact that we were messy or sporadic or never all on the same page at the same time. My father traveled fifty weeks out of fifty-two a year, leaving us mostly alone with our mother. We rummaged around for food in our pajamas, reading books and making up games. I reveled in the free spirited nature of it all. I felt proud of my mother’s devil-may-care attitude when it came to solving problems or making fun out of nothing.
But I’m not nearly as much fun as my mother, and Madeleine is too practical for all the nonsense that passed as a good time at my house growing up. Everyday, she runs every single thing through her razor sharp logic driven mind. She quizzes me about the highway system, Congress, public health, evolution, you name it, searching for holes in systems and theories. Everyday, I answer the best I can, all the time aware that she’s curious about things that never once cross my mind. She compares and contrasts while I dart and dodge, hoping to land on one of my better subjects. I talk too long when she asks me about spirituality, race, art or immigration. I pray she respects me even though I have no idea about the topics that interest her more.
Little by little the little trail of tears on my arm dries, and Madeleine’s sorrow turns to sighs. Empathy is a rare form of companionship that travels far, even with no dog in sight. “I love you, Mad,” I tell her, hoping it’s enough to fill her empty hands, hoping it’s enough to comfort her saddened heart. She murmurs her assent and for a second I can feel the tiny cord between us. The one from the core of her being to mine.
We float on the sea of otherness together, our differences folded into the kindness of not having to be alone–no matter how young your sorrow or how old your hope.
October 23rd, 2007 at 12:56 am
Oh do hang in there, Jen (as I know with some inner confidence that is quiet and happy that you will). We had a sea of otherness, as well. And now, my almost-twenty daughter tells me things like, “I’m so glad you raised me to read and wander in the woods and use my imagination without tv.” And she amazes at friends who didn’t read so many of the books that she read and don’t know characters that were her friends growing up.
There aren’t as many regular teeth-brushers as she may think running around out there…
October 23rd, 2007 at 1:20 am
[…] “We’re so different from other families,” she says in a constrained tone. This entry was written by Ariel and posted on October 22, 2007 at 10:19 pm and filed under Linkage. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL. […]
October 23rd, 2007 at 2:51 am
What a poignant and touching piece of writing, Jen. Your gifts as a creative being *and* as a mother shine through here. Your children will no doubt be stronger and richer for them.
October 23rd, 2007 at 5:26 am
It sounds like you’ve got a smart daughter there, don’t beat yourself up about not knowing all the answers to her questions.
I wish that I had never gotten a tv as my children watch it far too much and yes control over the channels and getting them to turn it off and engage in other things drives me insane!
My son (who is also 9) wants I dog but I don’t want to add more to my workload and tell him he can have one when he’s older. (I imagine he will have a house full of pets!) That he is lucky as he gets to interact with my mums cat and my sisters but without the responsibility of owning one.
Right now my children are in there pjs rumaging for food, teeth unbrushed at 10, dishes in the sink, dirty clothes in the washing machine waiting to be put on.
So, where am I going with this? I’m not sure, except that I think it’s part of your daughter being nine, it’s part of being a mum that makes you think your not doing it right and that you are not alone!
October 23rd, 2007 at 8:03 am
a little clarification: i’m not sure if it comes across in this piece, but i wanted to add that i wrote this from a place of really understanding and accepting that madeleine will view things differently than i do, and that i’m feeling more in reality (and accepting) of that than having an episode of self-doubt. hope that makes sense! for me, the point is more that i identify and empathize than make things perfect.
October 23rd, 2007 at 9:05 am
I can vividly recall being just about her age and desperately wanting our family to be like all the others around me…as did my father. This is a hard, hard place to be when you’re a kid…when conformity feels like such a safe harbor. Beautifully expressed.
October 23rd, 2007 at 9:15 am
Jen, your house sounds a lot like ours. We joke about our ten-year-old daughter being the only firstborn in the house (she’s an only child, and my husband and I were lastborns). Part of me feels a little regret that she is so ignorant of pop culture (at age nine, her now-part-of-family-lore genuine question was, “What’s a Twinkie?”). She attends a Waldorf school and has no idea that in “regular” schools the smart kids sit in the front and the troublemakers sit in the back - until a teacher moves them up front so she can keep an eye on them. As an adult, she will never be able to play the “my 3rd grade teacher was more horrific than yours” game, because the same teacher tracks with the class 1st-8th grade (and she is very much beloved). She has no idea what Webkins (sp?) are. And while her childhood may not be the typical American childhood, I’m pretty happy that her “out there” experience is what she’s got - just like you and Madeleine.
October 23rd, 2007 at 9:44 am
Beautifully written, Jen. It does make me ache a little, for M’s tender heart.
October 23rd, 2007 at 9:54 am
this piece killed me a little, in the most beautiful way. i read your site a lot, jen, but i believe this is the first time i’ve commented (hello). first, that picture of mad with carter is so perfect. and second, (this is in response, also to your comment i just read) that you understand the differences between yourself and your daughter is so incredible…that and you choose to see her and meet with her on hers.
my mother, while VERY loving and supportive, would not have brooked that sort of (what she would call) mooniness on my part. well, we WERE the tv/dog family, (and i ached to be in a less “normal” one) but she would have told me to suck it up, to look at what we did have and stop complaining. i guess i became so used to thinking of my wistfulness in different terms that it makes my heart smile when i see parents lovingly committed to nurturing their children’s differences (from themselves.)
my goodness, what a convoluted comment. i’m going to press publish and hope it makes sense.
thank you for writing what you write. it’s beautiful.
October 23rd, 2007 at 10:01 am
Just like you knew you grew up different from others she too knows that she is. I grew up different too, and like you I loved it (most of the time). That kind of confident differentness, where you know you’re special, really special … makes you believe you can do anything. (I’m thinking about the Nelson Mandella quote now, the one he said in his inaugural speech, when he became the first black President of SA .. the one about greatness and about how our deepest fears lie in our power and not in our inadequacies).
This was a great story.
October 23rd, 2007 at 10:32 am
Recently discovered your site. Wow. I’m not a Mom yet, but this resonates. As I grow wiser (I hope) I think of how I want to raise my kids a little differently than I was raised. But then, I think, maybe I had to go through what I did first, to get to the wisdom I have now. In the end, I think each generation swaps. I was raised with order and ambition and entrepreneurial thoughts and I will give my kids the imagination and open-mindedness I missed. They will in turn mourn money-mindedness and routine and give their kids that. So it goes. . . Thanks for making me think. So tenderly.
October 23rd, 2007 at 10:35 am
And one more thing–just read one of your comments back. Yes–I was amazed, yet strangely pleased that you simply empathized with your child, rather than saying–”yes we are, what about this, etc.”. You just empathized and the wisdom to know when to put a hand on a shoulder) and when to rush to provide a solution, to me, represents real wisdom.
October 23rd, 2007 at 11:13 am
I grew up in a different kind of home myself, because my older brother was multiply physically and mentally handicapped, and I remember longing for what I thought was normal. Now I look back and would not trade that experience of difference for anything. It lends you a strength in yourself and your own convictions.
Thank you for this post.
October 23rd, 2007 at 11:48 am
Extraordinary song. No matter how “different” or “normal” we each are, we mothers, fathers and families give our children something to reject, something to repudiate, something to break away from. The pull is essential. The tug is still painful. And then perhaps we see that our job is to keep silent and loving company with our children, even as they necessarily go their own way.
October 23rd, 2007 at 12:06 pm
I love this entry, Jen. Also wanted to share that Jordan (my daughter) has this *exact same dress*. We both absolutely love it! hugs, kisses, renee
October 23rd, 2007 at 12:37 pm
Jen, you are so skilled at telling your stories. Poignantly, gracefully, joyfully and with such love for your children, yourself, all the contradictions, and struggles of life and motherhood. To lie there with your children is in itself a gift. To become aware of the puddle and then to respond to it is giving a gift to Mad and her brother and yourself. And to us - because now we get to ponder our own relationships, the oceans of otherness in which each of us and all of us swim, and how we will drift on this ocean alternately alone and alongside those we love. Thank you so much for the photos, the feelings, and the encouragement to be boldly and wholly other. You dazzle me.
October 23rd, 2007 at 1:06 pm
Even with her sadness, that is a lovely post. She will think she had a great childhood — but maybe not until she’s done with childhood. I hate that part. And, yes, rice pudding IS a breakfast food.
October 23rd, 2007 at 1:22 pm
I remember around that age wishing upon stars that my dad would be more like xyz, or that my mom would stop doing abc, or that my sisters could be more like that other famillys sisters. I think that “grass is always greener on the other side” really kicks in around that age. Its so hard when you are striving to do whats best for you, but the balance isn’t right for the children….*whew* what thoughts this entry has left swirling in my mind!
October 23rd, 2007 at 1:35 pm
My husband’s parents are fantastic, really good people, though tend to be very black and white and unimaginative, which was hard for him as a child, he’s very sensitive, creative and philosophical.
It’s not so much that they were different that frustrated him, but that they never tried to understand -or even just listen. When he tried to express himself their faces would glaze over or when he asked questions they shrugged them off as silly questions.
I’m sure Madeline will come to appreciate that there’s nothing wrong with being ‘different’ (and that it’s a very relative term), but mostly that she’s fortunate to have a Mom who listens to her concerns and, even if you have different interests, at least you make an effort to see through her eyes.
October 23rd, 2007 at 2:23 pm
I so needed this today. Can’t even see the screen through my tears. Thanks.
October 23rd, 2007 at 4:50 pm
This made me wish I were a mama.
And I am not a want-to-be-a-mama kind of lady.
October 23rd, 2007 at 5:10 pm
That was beautiful.
She will appreciate the gifts you give her raising her this way, maybe when she’s older, but she will.
Your acceptance of the “otherness” is inspiring to me.
October 23rd, 2007 at 5:16 pm
You guys are so amazing . . . and, don’t worry . . . I don’t think there is a chart for teeth brushing. For us, it’s just after washing the syrup off our hands after eating our pancakes or waffles EVERY morning.
And, only on school days. We put away the toothbrushes on the weekends. haha
October 23rd, 2007 at 5:19 pm
that was so well written…
October 23rd, 2007 at 8:08 pm
bless you honey
you are the very best of everything.
October 23rd, 2007 at 8:09 pm
I avidly read your blog, but have never left a comment before. Today, I couldn’t resist. What beautiful writing. Thanks for sharing your insides with us.
October 23rd, 2007 at 10:46 pm
You’ve been tagged to do a meme
October 24th, 2007 at 12:09 am
This story is a perfect companion to “Tired of Secrets” for you, jen, received Madeleine’s confession with “kindness and unconditional love” and allowed her to “rest in the comfort of [your] wise and knowing heart.” I don’t know if you intended this connection but it came easily to me.
I’m not a mom but I also take from this story:
- the importance of bedtime talks and cuddles with loved ones
- to listen with empathy and not make judgments because of (young) age or (in)experience
- sometimes the most helpful and nurturing response is to say “i understand.”
October 24th, 2007 at 12:34 pm
one of the things I mourn most about missing out on as a kid was a mother who could simply and truly “hear” what I was saying. She loves me deeply, and made sacrifices for us in her own way, yet I never have to wonder why it is so important for people to understand me…
October 24th, 2007 at 2:22 pm
oh, I’ve got a dog for her….
October 24th, 2007 at 2:48 pm
Since Madeleine has access to all of those coveted shows via your laptop, methinks she complains too much ;). She does, after all, act out all of High School Musical, and anything else that comes off the Disney train–a sign I’d say that she is not so very deprived. Remind her about poor Sara growing up with no tv, no car, no phone… BEFORE the internet. sob, sob. I would have hiked to school through the snow too if it weren’t for that damn desert.
October 24th, 2007 at 2:50 pm
Well… it’s my first time here and I just adore your blog!
I’m a single mom to an 11 year old girl, and we are so far off that map of “normal-ness” & routine….I’ve had the same conversations with my daughter.
It’s refreshing to read your insights here. I feel empowered and re-affirmed….in everything from our 3 cats to me disconnecting the cable a year ago.
Hooray for cool moms and unique childhoods!
October 24th, 2007 at 3:23 pm
As a recovering fixer, I am so in awe of your ability, knowledge and willingness to let her have her experience, her feelings and just be with her in them.
I aspire to this kind of parenting.
October 24th, 2007 at 3:30 pm
Oh, this is a beautiful post.
October 24th, 2007 at 4:27 pm
i loved this. i loved that you just let her be..even when you wanted to say “but we do this, and we do that…” I will tuck this away in my heart for always. My baby girl is due next month and I am charting our path already….so much to think about.
October 24th, 2007 at 8:37 pm
Ahhhh Jen, you have the most wonderful great big heart, and your writing goes straight through mine. I’m going to reread this often.
October 25th, 2007 at 1:08 pm
beautiful.
October 26th, 2007 at 1:25 pm
Ah, how sweet (in the purist sense of that word). You are discovering that delicious surprise known as ‘how did this child come out of me?’ Your ability and willingness to recognize and honor the differences between you and Mad is a gift, perhaps the most important one you will ever give her.She feels safe, puzzled as only a 9-year-old can when contemplating this crazy universe, and secure in your love for each other. All the rest is just window dressing
October 27th, 2007 at 6:40 am
Just what I needed after a conversation with my daughter that has made me feel like “fixing” things instead of focusing on the empathy and just “being” with her. Thank you.
October 27th, 2007 at 3:02 pm
I am the organized mum that makes sure the teeth are brushed before bed and that breakfast is nutritious and I truly wish I was more like you. You have a lovely soul Jen.
October 28th, 2007 at 1:28 am
this is such a beautiful piece jen. thank you so much, as always, for sharing with us. i wish you luck in your journey to help madeline understand that even if you’re just like everyone else, you’re still different. and i already feel gratitude on behalf of the dog that may someday find its way into your sweet family.
October 28th, 2007 at 8:25 am
lucky lucky madeline to have such a wonderful and wise mother!
October 28th, 2007 at 6:09 pm
I hope I remember this when my next opportunity to just empathize arrives. We have many such moments thanks to the 5 year old boy who calls us home.
October 29th, 2007 at 7:23 am
I was raised in Woodstock Ny by my mom-just her and me. We had no tv-we were vegan-I rarely had friends over.
I can only remember craving otherness from middle school until about now in my 30’s. I worked really hard to have the “average” life. And luckily my mom taught me how to go after what I wanted because I got the “normal” in time to see that it isn’t what it is cracked up to be. Now I am working to find a middle-but if she had never taught me about otherness from “normal” I wouldn’t know where I was going-and instead of struggling like my “normal” husband is now at 37 to find his passion-I know what my passion is and am enjoying it.
I don’t know if all this makes sense.
In a nutshell-she may have moments of wanting otherness but I would bank on her being a much happier person in life for having what she has.
Hugs
October 29th, 2007 at 2:46 pm
Children have a way of making us view ourselves over and over again, and the prism is sometimes beautiful, often daunting, but at the end of the day we can only do the best we can.
So glad I found your blog…
October 30th, 2007 at 12:14 pm
this post is full of such love. i feel blessed to have read it, to have peeked into this moment of understanding and acceptance between you and your daughter.
thank you so much for sharing it here.
blessings to you…
October 30th, 2007 at 8:06 pm
Oh Jen, how you repeatedly touch my heart. I so appreciate that you empathized, but did not try to explain it away…and do not have aspirations to make your life more conventionally “normal”…whatever that is. I love that you pay attention to the really important things in life. Brushing your teeth is important, but it is the soul of life that you focus on and I can only imagine how wonderful it is to around that every day.
Your children, being raised by such an amazing mother will grow up to see beauty…beauty in people, beauty in the world around them, beauty in themselves. And I suspect that is exactly what you mean to cultivate in them.
You are such an inspiration…and you make me feel better about my own maternal otherness. xoxoxo
October 31st, 2007 at 1:07 am
Oh, wow, Jen. This writing is so beautiful. All I can think from reading this is how LUCKY Madeleine is to have you and you her. Blessings to you both.
October 31st, 2007 at 7:48 am
Hi - I just came across your website from Frida, read this entry and had to leave a comment. I have the teenage version of your Madeleine…Julia is 17, is curious in ways I could never imagine and challenges every fiber of my being just by her “othernessness”. Oddly enough, I am the mother that remembers the miscellaneous but her curiosity revolves around the moral, the ethical, the spiritual where I am all about systems. She survived my attempts to answer questions where there were none (at least I couldn’t come up with any!) and I think in many ways she is much stonger about her convictions because she always had to show me her light…..your Mad shines very brightly and I really connected to how you hold her up. I also have a Madeline, who is 14 and totally different from her sister….same parents, same family - go figure! Have a great day.
October 31st, 2007 at 11:54 pm
Jen, as much as I want to also tell you how beautifully written this way… I also want you to know that I love how you celebrate your differences. I absolutely love it that Madeleine and Carter will grow up in a home where they are free to just be. What a blessing! Don’t worry about being organized… keep focusing on providing them with experiences of deep beauty that many times is unexplicable!
November 1st, 2007 at 10:34 am
jen, tears came to my eyes reading this post. coming from a ‘very different’ family than a lot of my peers i can understand the tension madeleine is expressing, but i also know that as a full-grown adult (when did THAT happen?!), i respect and cherish those differences and appreciate how unique i am because of them. my thoughts are with you during this time of growth. may you always feel that cord between you and madeleine.
November 1st, 2007 at 12:47 pm
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November 1st, 2007 at 9:38 pm
I came here from Absolutely Bananas since Jen chose you for the perfect post award. I have to say I agree, your post was very touching. It always amazes me how children can seem wise beyond their years.
November 4th, 2007 at 2:04 am
Oh, Jen!
“Empathy is a rare form of companionship that travels far, even with no dog in sight.”
What wisdom!! What beauty!!
I feel, as I so often do, your panoramic empathy to be a kind of bridge uniting all of us, despite our differences. Thank you.
November 4th, 2007 at 11:46 am
this touched me to my very core - a beautiful post, thank you for sharing it Jen xo
November 5th, 2007 at 9:35 am
>
Jen,
When I was in sixth grade, we were back in the States on leave from Africa. I came home from school and said to my mother, “I met the weirdest kid today: he’s lived in the same house his entire life.”
My brother chimed in,”Hey, there was a kid like that in my class too. In fact, there were several of them.”
My mother said, “Boys, I’m afraid there are more of them than there are of you.”
I was glad to be twelve when I first learned that lesson. Now I’m fifty and both my sorrow and hope have aged. I still feel like there are more of them than me, and I’m grateful (as I pack the boxes to move yet again) that I am who I am.
Peace,
Milton
November 8th, 2007 at 2:04 pm
I was sooo glad to come upon this blog….My 9 year old daughter was distraut last night about the “popular girls”….cheerleading and all their “activities”..
She asked why we are so different with limited TV, guitar lessons and knitting lessons…I comforted her and explained no 2 families could be alike and thats what makes the world so beautiful….I so wanted to her embrace the idea of her own beauty and charm