Julie and I went for a long, brisk walk this morning. Brisk in alacrity, I mean, though it was also chilly. Still, I got over warm in my wool sweater and down vest. I’d had coffee already—maybe that’s what made me so chatty, as if I’m ever not. Isaiah has remarked that I talk a lot in the morning—which my brother and at least one of my sister’s has likewise observed (and in such observance, judgement lies no doubt too). They are all slower to rouse in the morning, less eager to socialize.
Yesterday I paid about a thousand dollars for my car inspection, in which it was revealed that the brake pads were shot and need replacing. Also an oil change. It adds up. I’d gotten a sizable freelance check earlier this week and now, nearly the weekend, it’s gone—paid to this bill and that. And on the way to pick up the car, I realized how lucky I had that check to pay that particular bill, and instead of the weary, internal recording that laments my lack of ambition, my sometimes mediocre professional luck, the unlikelihood I’ll ever make enough to buy a cute antique red MG or black Karmann Ghia and keep it in the driveway at my country cottage, I realized that I do as much as I can.
In a day, a single day, I’ll edit an essay in dire need of help, do four loads of laundry, get a few groceries, walk the dog at least three times, maybe go for a run, pay some bills, order my parents some personal toileting items from Amazon, return emails, peruse job sites, maybe apply for one or two, make my son lunch, make myself lunch, help with math homework (as if I know which numbers are neither composite nor prime, ha ha!), not go insane, not break into sobs or panic, shower (not always, though, that I often forgo).
To the extent that I’m failing or behind or stressed about money and the future—it’s not for lack of trying or my good intentions. Sadly, those virtues seem irrelevant. And it’s so unfair, which is of course juvenile. Sobeit.
Parenting—no matter your means or lack thereof—is a full-time job. More than full time—it’s all time, especially if your kid wakes up in the middle of the night and needs water or chap stick or comfort.
Did you happen to read that big story about Jonathan Kozol last week in the Times? He’s 87 now, written his last book, ready to shuffle off, I guess. Married briefly, he had no children—and I inferred from the story that that was partly a conscious decision because having been a teacher, he knew that kids are a distraction from other demands on your attention. It’s not fair to call them a distraction, though, they are not an aside, an accompaniment to a main attraction. Or not meant to be. Yet if you’re wholly devoted to a craft or a cause or an idea or an art—there’s no room for competition. If you’re lucky, I guess, and you have money, you can hire help to raise your child and they can worry about clean underwear and hair cut appointments and snacks for school and making sure you get online before the deadline to sign your kid up for camp or soccer or a band. Or if you a spouse. I’m asking for pity—I chose this route of single parenting. That doesn’t make it less hard.
But my point is that so often I get down on my lack of get up and go. It’s probably more fear than anything else that’s stopped me from taking some professional chances. Fear of failure and fear of finding out that my imagination—my sense of myself--far outpaces the reality of my abilities. I’m sure I’ve shared the story of the award-winning director whom I met at a party shortly after one of his early awards? And I said something about “I hear great things are happening,” and he replied: “Sara, great things have been happening since day one.”
At the time and for a long time thereafter, when I remembered that interaction, I judged him; I thought he was so arrogant. It may be that he was—but that is also the kind of belief in self one likely needs. A person who was once my boss had that same kind of self-confidence. Almost an entitlement. So, I tell Isaiah often—much more than my parents ever told me—that nothing’s out of reach for him. I’m hoping to instill the necessary bravado for him to pursue whatever ambition he so chooses. I want this self-confidence (less the unrefined veneer of boastfulness) so much to be part of his very being, lest it’s not inherently there already genetically.
Don’t get me wrong—my parents were not withholding or severe. They gave us praise, they still do, but it was economical. My mother used to comment about a friend who’d brag about her kid—and the very fact of commenting on it suggested how unseemly Joann thought it be. But the judgement of unseemliness may have been a cover for a sense of inadequacy that extended even—maybe subconsciously—from Joann to her children.
This is in the weeds. And I love my mama and I tell her so.
Today I realized I could still win an Oscar, if I put my mind to it. Those winners always say in their speeches, “I want to tell that little girl sitting at home that no dream is unattainable. If you will it, it will come.” But it’s a lie. Some dreams are unattainable. Even if you really work hard.
As for my Oscar—is it too late to become a casting director? Honestly, I think I have a knack for it. How do I break in?
Or a published author—of a book, I mean—is it too late for that? What would I write about? Me? You? Our relationship? Who cares enough to give me a contract?
There are blankets I must retrieve from the dryer. And challah needing an egg wash. Have a good weekend. Stay hopeful
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