Chopped Liver

(or, Patriarchy Sucks*)

One of my greatest character flaws is that I need positive reinforcement; I want people to like me. I'd love to be one of those people who confidently marches through life, satisfied entirely by some internal force…no one else's approval necessary, and in fact able to shed disapproval like raindrops off of gortex. I don't actually know any of those people, but I know that most people in my life are much more gortex than I am. I am 100% cotton; I absorb absolutely everything and in bad weather, I am not very warm.

Quinn can't talk yet so I really have no idea how she feels about me. But, sometimes I get hints—like the other day when I went to pick her up from her babysitter. I practically ran from my car to the front door because I was so friggin' excited to see her. Maury (the babysitter) carried Quinn to me so I wouldn't have to take my boots off. And, as she handed her over, Quinn started to cry. She actually leaned away from me and reached for Maury. I made a joke, of course, in hopes that I wouldn't start to cry too. Maury was kind enough to insist it wasn't as it appeared, my baby preferring her over me, but we both knew it was.

Quinn responds in this preferential way to Sam too. I'll be busily taking care of some need she has—in the middle of the night or at the end of a long day at school—feeding her, bathing her, or changing a diaper, and she'll be all business, like I'm the hired help. But, as soon as Sam walks into the room, her whole face lights up. She smiles and her eyes get bright with joy.

I get basically nothing in the way of positive reinforcement. I have to do all kinds of stupid antics to even get a smile out of her. There is no "Thank you, Mom, for growing me inside your own body for nine months, and for sustaining my life for the past six with what you've produced from your own…thank you for knowing instinctively when I'm on my face and need you to flip me back over, or knowing that I'm crying because I'm cold, or wet, or my toes are being jammed into these pajamas that are too small." And, you know, I don't even really need any of that…at least not yet…but a voluntary smile would be nice now and then. Or at least she might consider not crying when I show up to bring her home.

But she loves Sam...without the antics and despite the fact that I think I am usually more tuned in to her needs than he is. Sam  will walk over to me, with Quinn in his arms, and ask, "should I change her?" This stuns me. "Sniff her butt," I'll say, and that's me being polite, because what I'm really thinking is, "How the flock do I know? You're the one holding her!" And as he walks away, I'll be thinking, "What a moron."

So, okay, I'll admit, maybe the lack of positive reinforcement from Quinn is the price I pay for being overly critical and needy. Maybe she is trying to scold me for being so mean; I am convinced she knows things, that she has fully developed adult thoughts in that little noggin of hers. Maybe that's why she will only smile at Sam. Maybe she's trying to say, "Stop being such a bitch, Mom; he's trying."

That would be fine if there was some way for me to get my tank filled up now and then…some way she could show me that I’m doing something right, or that in the broader world I could get some credit for all this work. In the absence of these things, I cling to mostly irrelevant data, like how much she weighs. I rejoiced proudly at the doctor's office this week when we were told that Quinn had moved from the 13th percentile in weight to the 18th (like it even matters). She now weighs 14 lbs 6 oz, thanks largely to my breastfeeding efforts because she's not taking to the formula quite as I hoped she would, and she'd rather spray the kitchen with the butternut squash I grew for her than eat it. (It pains me still to recall those hot summer days, faithfully bending over my gargantuan belly to pull weeds from the squash bed). She also enjoys spitting the homemade applesauce in my face, more than she enjoys swallowing it. But, she's growing! And as the doctor measured the circumference of her head, she said with a congratulatory smile, "Wow, Sam, she really is your Mini-Me." Would someone please take this invisibility cloak off of me!?!

If it sounds like I'm calling Whine-1-1, well, I suppose I am. Because Quinn doesn't look anything like me. And she doesn't have my name. Even though I'm doing all this work, she's a Jackson, and she looks like one too. And furthermore, she worships her father and treats me like the lunch lady...well, maybe worse than that because at my school, just about everyone thanks the lunch lady (and the lunch man) after every meal.

What gets me too is that I think back to my own childhood and see similarities...not in the distribution of genes necessarily (I am a near look alike to my mother), but in the distribution of adoration. I'm tempted to somehow blame my dad for this weakness of character that makes me crave people's approval; I grew up craving his and, like Quinn, he didn't give it up easily. Here's the ridiculous part: I still seek his approval, even though I'm 39 and no longer need to earn an allowance or get his permission.

I grew up believing I would marry my dad when I got older…I was little, so this seemed normal. I worshipped him. He was funny—always the guy who could put people at ease, make people laugh. He made silly faces. And he made quiet jokes in church that made my sister and me laugh out loud. Our mother would give us the look—the cut it out! behave yourselves! look—and my dad would frown in mock agreement, and that would make us laugh even more. I never had any idea what was happening in church, but I knew my dad's every move. Everything my dad did was funny, and cool. And I always preferred to be doing the things he did than those my mom did. I wanted to mow the lawn. I wanted to stack firewood. I wanted to build stuff in his workshop with him, and use his power tools.

My dad traveled a lot for work when I was young, and I missed him, a lot. On a couple of occasions, to make up for his frequent absences, we had Kerry Days and Amy Days. I don't know if this was his idea or my mom's, but I can tell you, these days were seriously awesome and he got full credit! From morning until evening, he was all mine. I have vague memories of going out to breakfast at Perkins, of walking around the mall, of him buying me some Snoopy stuff, and even of having dinner out (probably pizza) at the far end of those long, indulgent days. But, even better is the fact that in the midst of these vague memories, I have very vivid memories of my dad taking me roller skating…at the roller rink…with disco lights and a bunch of kids my age in corduroys and rainbow stripped leg warmers. Well, maybe I was the only one in leg warmers; that's possible. The important thing is that my dad was there with me. And he roller-skated too.

What I've never stopped to think about before is the possibility that my mom might have influenced the idea for Kerry Day. Even if she didn't, she facilitated it by entertaining my sister on those days, and taking care of everything that needed to be done at home. I never thought about those things...those many, many things. When I think back to my youth, I think of missing my dad when he was away, and of following him around when he was home. I think about sitting in the family room with him on fall Sundays to watch football, not because I liked watching football, because I didn't, but just because I liked being with him. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved my mom. Especially when I was a teenager and I needed her to help me process things. She really was my best friend and best role model. But, I didn't really appreciate the amount of work she did. The amount of behind-the-scenes, keeping-things-running work. I remember that she was always in a bad mood on the day that she spread the bills out on the kitchen table with her calculator and the checkbook; she hated paying the bills, but she did it. Our pantry was always full, clothes were always clean, and we had a hot family dinner every single night…and I could get all Energizer Bunny on you right now and keep going and going and going...but I'll just try to get to the point:

My mom gave her love freely, constantly, and tirelessly, and yet I craved the attention of my dad. I'm glad she at least lived long enough to know I eventually appreciated her in the full way that I should have all along. But I wonder what sustained her all those years when I thought her presence was a given and her efforts were invisible. 

Maybe she took some solace in what was visible.

FYI: This week marked the 100th Anniversary of International Women's Day. If your mom is still within earshot...give her a call and tell her she is awesome...especially if you look just like your dad. 

*Full Disclosure: Sam was willing to give Quinn my last name. I agreed to Jackson. (It must've been the hormones).