Mother’s Milk
A few years ago, before I was even pregnant with June, Chris and I took a trip to Rhinebeck, New York. What I remember most about the trip was the size of the bed in our hotel room and this most amazing banana chocolate almond creme brulee cake-thing we had after dinner one night. I also remember that we spent an afternoon at Val-Kill, Eleanor Roosevelt’s home, and that I cried when the tour guide showed us her desk. I cried because I wasn’t working much then, and I wanted to be, and I didn’t know how to begin. The tour guide showed us lots of things in that house and told us lots of stories about Eleanor’s life at Val-Kill and the people who came to visit her there. One of the things she told us was that Eleanor never learned to cook, so when important people were in the house on the cook’s night off Eleanor fed them scrambled eggs.
Eleanor Roosevelt making scrambled eggs. Great image, no? It illustrates both her privilege (how lucky she was that she was never responsible for feeding herself and her husband and her children) and her intelligence (how smart she was never to learn a task that would keep her from her work). It reminds me of that old women’s movement advice about how a woman should never know how much milk there is in the refrigerator. To be the keeper of the milk is to be hopelessly tangled in the kudzu vine of domestic life. Avert your eyes from the sell-by date, train yourself to ignore the extreme angle at which you must hold the carton as you fill that last cereal bowl, and you shall be free.
Suffice it to say that I know exactly how much milk we have. As I write this I am sitting in a library 15 miles from my refrigerator, which I opened only once this morning. And still I can tell you that we have about a quarter of a gallon of whole with another to replace it when it’s gone, and half a gallon of skim. We are just one full sippy cup away from the end of the goat milk kefir, which is too bad considering it’s the only thing June drinks and I have to go to Whole Foods to buy it. We also have some half-and-half that’s dangerously close to solidifying and some almond milk that I keep forgetting to take to the dump.
Chris–God love her half as much as I do– hasn’t a clue about the milk.
I try not to know about the milk. I try to plead ignorance when Chris asks me if I know where the ketchup is or if we have any olives or an open container of hummus. I want her to know something about the inhabitants of that vast Nordic landscape called our fridge. But more than that, I just desperately want not to know. I want to free some real estate in this downtown Tokyo called my mind.
Yesterday a small satin rosette fell off of one of Grace’s doll dresses. She was bereft. “Can you fix it? Can you sew it?” she asked, over and over.
“I don’t really know how to sew,” I told her.
“Then I’ll send it to Reboo. She knows how to sew.”
“Good idea,” I said. “We’ll send it to Reboo.”
The truth is I do know how to sew, or at least I know how to sew well enough that I could get the rosette back on baby Bella’s romper. But I can’t know how to sew. I already know how to do too much. And while I can never go all the way to scrambled egg dinner parties, I can draw the line somewhere. So I’ve decided to draw it at sewing. And even though it will take more time for me to package up that dress and drive it to the post office than it would for me to just sew it, at least it’s time I can spend thinking of other things.
Like the fact that I really should stop by the store and pick up some milk.
I think that the grass always seems to be greener on th other side. . . I have no idea how much milk is in the fridge, I do not have the time to sew things for my girls, and I would love to have grand dinner parties where I, personally, prepared fabulous dishes for all of my guests. But I have none of those things. I do have four beautiful girls that I want to be June Clever for, but will settle for being a role model for them to grow into strong, hard working, independant women. I think both of our lives are great and in the end if our girls have the freedom to make the choice whether to know what is in the fridge, then we have done our jobs well
Fridge – yes, I know it, but I like knowing it.
Cat litter box – I know it not. And I will not know it. The cat used to be The Perfect Cat who did not need a litter box, but now she’s old and doesn’t want to pee/poop outside in bad weather.
What I don’t want to be is The One Who Knows the status of the dog’s outdoor water dish: full or empty.
I also think that I don’t always want to be the Keeper of the Kids’ Schedules, but really, I would feel left out if I weren’t.
Such a lovely post you have written, again!
Wonderful post. I always start my workday with a peak at your blog and always go away happy with a new posting.
Please don’t lament being the keeper of the milk. I think it is truly the most important job in the whole universe. From experience, I think you’ll find the day when you don’t have to know how much milk is in the ‘fridge to be a very hard day.
When I’m nothing but dust, I hope that those I shared this life with will remember not how much time I spent behind my desk (or is that hiding under the desk?), but rather how much comfort I gave them – and that the milk never ran out.
Namaste’
I don’t know if this is the answer. Did I know to much and do too much and that is why I could never be Alice Neel, like Georgia O’Keefe, a renowned female painter? What I actually believe is that it was not their refusal to do these daily tasks, to pay attention to others’ needs, but rather their raging narcissism. I read a biography of Georgia and went to a lecture by Alice Neel, these were two women totally consumed with themselves and their work. Would I trade being a well rounded and giving person for having been consumed to create great work? I would not. Can you do both? Yes, but it is hard.
cont., Look at Sally Mann, she seems to be able to do both. But she also seems to have more energy than God.
Good luck with this one, Sweetie. It ain’t easy being a good mom.
Also Happy Mother’s Day.
I love this entry.
Great points Susan…and great topic Erin! I often struggle with WHY I care about whether the vegetable drawer is clean and not full of rotting veggies, and why I like the house to be reasonably clean. And I get mad that my dear husband can’t seem to notice or care about the things that irk me…clothes lying on the floor, messy toothpaste sinks. I care about whether there’s milk and the right snacks, and can’t turn that switch off in my head. When I came across another mom blogger who’s blog motto was ‘a clean house is the sign of a wasted life’, I felt like a loser for putting housekeeping first. Am I? for giving my time to these tasks instead of myself?