Greta has wanted to take dance for several months, and she is - finally - eagerly awaiting the beginning of her first class which starts this Saturday. I found a class that was accepting new children, which had Saturday lessons, and one that was associated with a YMCA. Unfortunately, that particular class is about 25 minutes away from our home. No problem. Our Saturday mornings are for lolly-gagging anyway, so what is a little car ride? Wy can swim while G has her dance class.
When I made a phone call to the Y to sign Greta up last week, I was told that I have to come in person to do so but that I could not come on a weekend or after six o'clock in the evening. I asked the ballet instructor if I could come right away and she agreed that she would be available to talk with me. I took an early lunch, drove way across town, and went to the Y's front desk to ask about the class and to find the teacher. "She's not in at the moment; you'll have to come back another time." I breathed deeply for a moment, and in that moment, I saw dozens of women scattered all around the YMCA's lobby, most of whom were clad in workout clothes and all of whom had myriad children either on their person or attached to their legs. It was 11:30 in the morning. I was suddenly furious. My reaction was illogical and set off by circumstances which have nothing to do with any of those women in particular. But I felt spitting mad at the societal set-up that seemed geared to enhance their schedules yet was antithetical to my own. I was annoyed that they were able to sign their children up for ballet class and that they felt no pressure to quickly return to the office to file a brief that was due the next day. They were in comfy clothes instead of a suit and heels. They could run their errands at a reasonable time of day instead of at 9:00 at night after their children went to sleep. They could exercise and not feel guilty about putting their children in the YMCA's childcare for an hour. They could fold laundry as their children napped rather than at 6:00 in the morning before their children awoke. All of that came to me in about a second or two as I scanned the room just trying to think how I could work this all out.
I looked back at the woman behind the main desk and said simply and quietly, "Well that makes me angry." I then explained how I'd called and made an appointment with the ballet instructor and that she promised me she would be there until 2:00. I asked the woman before me to please do her best to try to find the instructor. Eventually, the instructor was located, and I was whisked away to pay for the class and buy the appropriate leotard, tights, tutu, and shoes.
However, come to find out, the YMCA does not sell the shoes. Those are found at a separate supplier in a different neighborhood some 20 more minutes away. I bought what I could that day and went back to work, spent my afternoon in trial, and picked Greta up with the tutu and leotard in hand. We had dinner with friends that night, and she changed into her ballet stuff right in the parking lot of the restaurant and donned it at dinner.
Part two of this saga was staged this week. I found the dance supplier online and travelled yesterday during my lunch hour to buy the ballet slippers. Since they "don't run true to size" but "seem to have no marker of being too big or too small", I paid $64.00 and bought three pairs of slippers to make sure one of them would fit G's sweet feet. Alas, none did. It was very Cinderella. Last night I traced Greta's feet on a piece of construction paper, and today I spent my lunch hour back at the supplier figuring out that the ballet slippers run exactly two and one half sizes too small. Make a note, sales lady. Greta now sleeps with one complete ballerina costume at her side. Her first lesson is Saturday. I will be out of town on a work trip.
All of that is to say this: my mother is an amazing woman.
As I drove away from the YMCA that first day, I sat in a kind of reverie of my own working mom and all the things she did behind the scenes of my childhood. All the dance classes, gymnastics classes, piano lessons, church trips, summer camps, recitals, library cards, cheer leading competitions - - all of it with a full-time job, elderly parents, and another daughter nine years my senior who was in high school or college or having her own children during all those years I was growing up. I remember once in fourth grade telling my mom that we would begin square dancing the following day at school. This was in the era when blue jean skirts were the rage, and the teacher had encouraged us to dress the part - - twirly denim skirt, pearl buttons, cowgirl hat, and all. I, of course, had none of those things. My mom took me after work to the fabric store, bought a yard or so of denim material and a pattern, and stayed up all night making a skirt for me. I remember waking up the next morning and finding it laying across me in bed. I once had to have an Izod sweater on the fly. My mom removed a little alligator label from my dad's sock and stitched it onto a sweater I already had. Presto, chango - - I was stylish, and she didn't have to go to the mall an hour away.
I thought about how she juggled my own limitations with her professional life. When I was too young to be home alone, mom showed me the route that I should walk between school and her office - walked it with me each day for that first week of first grade. Each day during my elementary years, I walked to her office and hung out in the bank's break room while she finished work. When I was older and summertime came, I woke each morning to find lipstick lips on my forehead. Mom would come home at noon and forgo watching her favorite soap opera in order to hang out with me and eat some Sonic drive-through chili-pie before whisking me off to the pool for the afternoon. I got homemade cookies, two vegetables and a meat every night, and the model of a woman who was both intellectual in her work endeavors and nurturing in her mom endeavors. And I do not recall a single time in my life when she said that she could not do something for me because of her career.
I do not think there is a right or wrong way to go through life. To each her own. And I adhere strongly to the belief that we can all change around our paths at any moment. To that end, talk to me in a year and you might well be talking to a stay-at-home mom. But in this moment, I work happily. I mother contentedly. This running around chasing a construct which is geared to moms (and dads) who are mostly at home, though - well that is for the birds. Recently I talked to a Judge about this; her child is one of Paul's students and I have been in front of her in court several times. She told me that she actually changed her daughter's school in order to find a place that she could fit in - - not the daughter, but the Judge/mother. She wanted to be in a community of parents who also worked outside of the home so that she would not always be the mom who had to make plans way in advance in order to volunteer or chaperone a field trip.
As our children's lives begin to require more time outside of our home, I find that my time is shifting to accommodate them in ways that I might not have predicted would be so hard. Who knew, after all, that gaining access to ballet for a three year old would require a full tank of gas and three hours of my work day? I know now. When this happens again, and it will most assuredly do so, I will turn to the many women in my life who have done it, are doing it, and will do it one day. Thanks to all my stupendous examples - the best of which is my own mom.
No comments:
Post a Comment