When my sister was a baby, as the family stories go, I was eager to know what her voice would sound like. Then, as now, I looked forward to having someone new to talk to. When she finally found her voice, Amy was a little person who never shut up. In jest, everyone blamed me; be careful what you ask for, they said. But I can't imagine not wanting to hear the sound of Quinn's voice, so I'm not afraid to ask.
This is not just about looking forward to hearing what cute things she might say; it's more serious than that. I very much believe that the strength and quality of your voice are of the utmost importance. A yes should be resounding. A no should be wholly lacking in ambiguity. I love you and I'm sorry should be used with great care. A young woman's ability to speak her mind, to give voice to her life, can be one of her most vital acts of living.
This is the political me speaking here: the woman who grew up encouraged to stand up for what she believes, to do right and be proud. This woman is also the mother of a daughter, determined to protect my girl as best I can as she travels to her own womanhood, to arm her with self-confidence, courage, a clear voice.
I'm sure that boys have their own challenges as they grow, but to be honest, the path just doesn't seem as treacherous. I could be wrong, but it seems to me the obstacles for boys are fairly straightforward, fairly easy to navigate. Recently, talking with one of the boys at school about eating disorders, the boy admitted he struggled to understand. I admired his honesty, and thought his comment about it was illuminating: "I don't know why girls just won't eat. I'm always hungry!" I like boys for this reason—they are generally uncomplicated. I like girls for this reason too—they are complicated. But some of that complexity opens us to vulnerability.
At Quinn's 15-month doctor's appointment, her pediatrician told us that while she wasn't really worried, she would like to see Quinn gain weight. She was 19 pounds and only in the fifth percentile, twenty-fifth for height. In the time since that appointment, I've vacillated between two opposing thoughts: First, someone has to be in the fifth percentile, so what's the problem? Having seen photos of Sam as a child, I know where the chicken legs come from. His brother Josh recently told me that their mother called them The Anatomy Lessons when they were small. So, it's genetic; part of me believes she is doing just fine.
Then there is the other part of me. Oh god…what if something's wrong with her? Why won't she eat anything? Why does she have that bloated, malnourished-looking belly? What if we're not trying hard enough, or feeding her the right things? What if this sets her up for a lifelong problem with food? At almost 18 months, after a bout of stomach virus, Quinn still only weighs twenty pounds...
I know and care about girls who have nearly starved themselves. I worry about them all the time. I worry about my teenaged Quinn and she's still years away. And I worry about the work that I have to do on myself to be sure that Quinn grows up hearing the right narrative. Occasionally I hear myself saying that I'm old, or fat, and I know I'm already late in correcting this behavior, this incredibly bad habit. Quinn isn't telling stories yet, but she's hearing them, and understanding. I owe her, and myself, a different story if there is to be any hope that she'll continue to love the sight of herself in the mirror.
I've just finished reading Louise Erdrich's memoir, The Blue Jay's Dance, which I discovered serendipitously. In one section she writes, "A woman needs to tell her own story, to tell the bloody version of the fairy tale. A woman has to be her own hero. The princess cuts off her hair...rushes wildly toward the mouth of the dragon, sets off on her own quest. She crushes her crown beneath her foot, eats dirt, eats roses, deals with the humility and grandeur of her own human life." So much of the stories we women tell are the stories someone else has fed to us: you are old, you are fat, you are not beautiful, you can't...but Erdrich is right, we need to tell our own stories.
When Quinn starts looking for words to express herself, I want her to have ready access to a rich vocabulary. It's hard not to simply comment on her beauty, because of course I think she is perfect, but still I try to give her options; Quinn is already smart, strong, resourceful, and good, among many many other things. I hope these words come to her soon, and stay with her through life, and I hope she is constantly collecting new words with which to tell her story. I also hope that she will be impervious to the voices that will try to speak for her, or limit her in their language, a different one hopefully than the one she will speak. I want her to rush at the mouth of the dragon, even if the dragon has somehow found its way into her own thoughts...Especially then.
In the same section of Erdrich's book, I read this: "Love is an infinite feeling in a finite container." On the morning of Valentine's Day just last week, I was getting ready to give Quinn a bath. Our tub is too deep to lean over and too slippery to let her be in there by herself. Quinn loves taking a bath, and as I organized wash cloths and shampoo and stacking cups, and the water started to collect, she excitedly put her arms up into the air to be lifted up and it was then that she first said, "Mama."
Not wanting to get my hopes up, I dismissed it…she's just mumbling, I thought, just playing with sounds. But then, when I was scrubbing her dirty face a few minutes later, she was exasperated: "Mama!" she squawked, and swatted me away. I let that one in, knowing it was definitely meant for me.
But it was the third time that it truly became real. Sam had come in to help us get out of the tub. He had wrapped her in a towel and was holding her while I climbed out myself. I was standing on the bath mat, drying off, and I looked up to see her pointing at me, "Mama," she said in an almost shy little voice. A smile of recognition lit up her face, as if we were old friends reunited, and then she said it again, Mama. I couldn't stop the tears from coming, or the relieved laughter; it's been a long 17 months waiting for that word, and I've worked hard to earn it. I've never been so happy to hear anything in my life; I have literally never heard a sweeter sound. ...An infinite feeling, in a finite container.
Since then, Quinn's been saying mama with some regularity, and each time it is as completely wonderful as the others. But sometimes I think she is starting to call me when I realize the syllables have become something else: Ma-ma-ma-mine. I'm struck by this irony--Mama, my, mine--the sounds so close, so nearly interchangeable. They keep me alert to my responsibilities. My weaknesses will be her own if I let them, and yet strength of character, and self-confidence are possibilities too. There is so much work to do, but to protect her total absence of self-consciousness, her sassy confidence, is worthwhile.
It is everything.
It is the work of the mother, still collecting words for her own story, to also provide the language the daughter will need to be her own hero. That is the new everything.
