Read Online The Stardust Lounge by Deborah Digges - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Digges
Ads: Link
just endured, ourselves, some minor crisis with one of our own children. As we say it, we know that the fact of her patience, her silence, her worry, her willingness to listen, and most of all, her passionate engagement with us will be the quality we must now emulate.
And so, like her, we become fierce mothers, mothers who plot and gauge, who measure and consider, who call one another for advice, reporting on a book or an article we've read, some insight we've had, each of us offering experiences in order to help our sisters.
Like our mother, we believe ourselves to be wholly capable. We exude an earnest, youthful confidence, a satisfaction as we tell one another how well this or that turned out—the birthday party, the camping trip, the teacher's conference, the math tutor, the bedtime problems.
Our children are the heroes and heroines of our narratives. We defer to them, to their intelligence, judgment, their abilities to adapt or stand up for themselves, and as we defer to them, we take pride in our direction.
We do not forget to tell one another, “You did just the right thing. That was smart! Good for you!” And we wait to hear such praise heaped upon ourselves.
We believe, as our mother, that we are doing it right, that we are good mothers doing the right things for our children. Perhaps we are even a bit smug about the ways in which our young children are prospering. Love is enough. Love is a compass that will show us true north. So we navigate by the stars.
We say to ourselves, “Of course!” when some crisis resolves. “Of course!” As we say it we hear our mother's voice piously quoting from the Old Testament, “Bring a child up in the way that he should go and in the end he will not depart from it.”
In Brookline, many years from our walk to the cherry tree, things begin to go wrong with my Stephen. I talk to my mother and my sisters. As always they listen, consider, offer advice. Yes, they agree that maybe a private school is a good idea.
“Yes,” my mother says. “You're doing the right thing.”
But when the troubles exacerbate, when I begin to suspect drugs and guns, when Stephen's withdrawal becomesso profound he refuses to speak to me, eat at the same table, when he exhibits behavior I never imagined from one of my children, I call my mother and sisters less and less, then not at all.
My reports of Stephen's behavior have begun to shock them to silence. I hear their restraint. In their silence I believe that I am hearing their judgment of my son and me.
No, they have never experienced anything like this. How can they help? Would it help if they visited, or maybe I should send Stephen to them for a week or so. But in these offers I think that I detect caution in their voices, which I interpret as fear. I imagine them wondering how a visit from this wild nephew might affect their household.
“Don't worry—we'll figure it out. It'll be all right in the end,” I say, thinking to let this cup pass from them. They continue to write and call, voice their support, and offer help, but I become evasive.
I am afraid. My identification with my son and my feelings of responsibility for his behavior are strong. I am ashamed.
How can I tell my good sisters, with their young sweet children, about the things Stephen is doing? Daily I navigate by shame that carries me far away from my son and my family. Surely any child who behaves this way has a mother who has done something wrong. What wrong? Something, something very wrong.
It's been years, anyway, since I've been home. I've lost touch with my family. I've been finishing graduate degrees, writing, divorcing, remarrying, moving my childrenwith me across country, overseas to London, and back again. My life has taken a course different from my sisters'.
I battle guilt from my smugness, personal and cultural, that confuses and paralyzes me: in my mother's and sisters’ eyes, certainly in my eyes, my son Charles has “turned out fine.” That was
And so, like her, we become fierce mothers, mothers who plot and gauge, who measure and consider, who call one another for advice, reporting on a book or an article we've read, some insight we've had, each of us offering experiences in order to help our sisters.
Like our mother, we believe ourselves to be wholly capable. We exude an earnest, youthful confidence, a satisfaction as we tell one another how well this or that turned out—the birthday party, the camping trip, the teacher's conference, the math tutor, the bedtime problems.
Our children are the heroes and heroines of our narratives. We defer to them, to their intelligence, judgment, their abilities to adapt or stand up for themselves, and as we defer to them, we take pride in our direction.
We do not forget to tell one another, “You did just the right thing. That was smart! Good for you!” And we wait to hear such praise heaped upon ourselves.
We believe, as our mother, that we are doing it right, that we are good mothers doing the right things for our children. Perhaps we are even a bit smug about the ways in which our young children are prospering. Love is enough. Love is a compass that will show us true north. So we navigate by the stars.
We say to ourselves, “Of course!” when some crisis resolves. “Of course!” As we say it we hear our mother's voice piously quoting from the Old Testament, “Bring a child up in the way that he should go and in the end he will not depart from it.”
In Brookline, many years from our walk to the cherry tree, things begin to go wrong with my Stephen. I talk to my mother and my sisters. As always they listen, consider, offer advice. Yes, they agree that maybe a private school is a good idea.
“Yes,” my mother says. “You're doing the right thing.”
But when the troubles exacerbate, when I begin to suspect drugs and guns, when Stephen's withdrawal becomesso profound he refuses to speak to me, eat at the same table, when he exhibits behavior I never imagined from one of my children, I call my mother and sisters less and less, then not at all.
My reports of Stephen's behavior have begun to shock them to silence. I hear their restraint. In their silence I believe that I am hearing their judgment of my son and me.
No, they have never experienced anything like this. How can they help? Would it help if they visited, or maybe I should send Stephen to them for a week or so. But in these offers I think that I detect caution in their voices, which I interpret as fear. I imagine them wondering how a visit from this wild nephew might affect their household.
“Don't worry—we'll figure it out. It'll be all right in the end,” I say, thinking to let this cup pass from them. They continue to write and call, voice their support, and offer help, but I become evasive.
I am afraid. My identification with my son and my feelings of responsibility for his behavior are strong. I am ashamed.
How can I tell my good sisters, with their young sweet children, about the things Stephen is doing? Daily I navigate by shame that carries me far away from my son and my family. Surely any child who behaves this way has a mother who has done something wrong. What wrong? Something, something very wrong.
It's been years, anyway, since I've been home. I've lost touch with my family. I've been finishing graduate degrees, writing, divorcing, remarrying, moving my childrenwith me across country, overseas to London, and back again. My life has taken a course different from my sisters'.
I battle guilt from my smugness, personal and cultural, that confuses and paralyzes me: in my mother's and sisters’ eyes, certainly in my eyes, my son Charles has “turned out fine.” That was
Similar Books
