"You're Good at Vacuuming"

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, 

but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou

We were finishing up dinner one night last week, having some homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Sam was drying dishes and putting them away. Quinn was on a stool at the island in our kitchen. I was somewhere in between. “You make good cookies, Mom,” she said. “I do,” I agreed, shamelessly. “I’m the best cookie baker you’ll ever meet!” 

“Yeah, you’re good at cookies Mom. And, Dad...you’re good at vacuuming!”

This stopped us in our tracks. I let out a surprised laugh. Sam looked confused, at best. Then I started thinking: Quinn meant it as a compliment, genuinely. And Sam’s face seemed to say, “Geez, that’s all I’m good at?” Almost instantly I realized how great this was. I explained it to Sam: growing up with a dad who is good at vacuuming (as well as a number of other things), means Quinn will grow up with the expectation that dads, and therefore men, vacuum. And maybe they even do the dishes, and a few other household chores. It means she will be less likely to end up with a man who believes it’s entirely her responsibility to do those household chores. It means she’ll grow up expecting a partner, not a boss.  It may even mean that she grows up challenging preconceived gender roles. Pretty soon, Sam seemed okay being the guy who was good at vacuuming. And, ironically, soon after that conversation, I found an article online titled, “Dads who do chores raise daughters who aspire to high-paying careers.” 

The next day, I was still thinking about it all, and I started thinking about my own dad. I don’t remember him vacuuming exactly, but I’m sure he did, along with plenty of other things around the house. One of our rules was that the person who made dinner didn’t have to do the dishes. And I remember a lot of summer evenings when my parents would leave together after dinner to go play tennis while my sister and I cleaned up. Not only did they share the work, my parents were also active together. And they encouraged us to get out and do things too. When we moved to a town with no girls’ swim team, both my parents encouraged me to join the boys’ team. I knew they were proud of me when I swam against the boys, and perhaps especially so when I beat them. I never felt like there was anything I couldn’t do just because I was a girl. And I always felt like it was worth fighting for my place in the world. That’s how I was raised.

And I’ve been working to raise Quinn that way too. When a recent Atlantic magazine arrived with two women on the cover, and an article called “Closing the Confidence Gap,” it made its way to the bathroom where most of our magazines spend some time. Quinn, like her dad, enjoys a good magazine in there, and when she spotted the picture of the two women, she wanted to know all about them. We’ve been talking about what it means to be confident for weeks. I’ve been telling her that being confident means knowing that you are smart, and strong, and independent, which means you’re good at doing things by yourself. When I heard her in the bathroom the other day, I went upstairs to see if she needed any help. When I arrived, she told me, “I did it myself Mom, because I’m confident.”

I’ve been reading her books with female characters, telling her she’s strong and smart instead of always pretty, and I’ve been working on myself too to be sure she sees me leading a healthy, happy life at home, at work and in my free time. But I realize that no matter how much I try to tell her that she just needs to be confident in herself, there’s the rest of the world she has to deal with too--all the people who will try to limit her or make her feel bad for possessing those very traits I want her to have. 

The timing this week was ironic: it was the same week a young man went on a killing spree in California, targeting women, because they had never done what he wanted them to do.  No matter how confident those young women may have been, they couldn't compensate for the killer's lack of confidence. It was the same week our school's campus blew up in a hot mess over some student-written op-ed pieces in which kids tried to make sense of their feelings about sexism, and which soon descended into kids making public attacks on each other--boys attacking girls because they felt attacked. Soon they were right back where they started: he said-she said, and us against them...some kids left frustrated they didn't make any progress, but not realizing their effort was progress itself. This week was also, ironically, the week the indomitable Maya Angelou died--a beautiful and powerful voice for the beauty and power of all people.

Quinn needs such voices (we all do), and she needs to be able to see examples of how things should be. This is where Sam’s vacuuming is so important.That and her own instincts. Today we had a birthday party to go to for a four year old boy from her daycare. I asked Quinn what she thought her friend would like for a present and she said, “Well, he loves snuggle buddies!” I thought about it and realized that nearly every time I see this little boy, he’s squeezing a stuffed animal in the crook of his arm. Still, I was thinking trucks or something like that would be a better (more well-received) gift. But, when I brought Quinn to the store, I decided to just let her choose--he’s her friend after all. 

There was a huge display of perfectly sized stuffed animals. Bears, monkeys, weird looking gremlins...and there was one white kitten with pink ears. When it was present opening time, the birthday boy was inundated by kids eager to give him their presents. About halfway through, after a bunch of trucks and light sabers had already been unwrapped, Quinn worked her way to the front of the pack and handed him her gift. She stood next to him as he opened it and all the other kids looked on. I looked on nervously too. When he got the paper opened up, he immediately squeezed the kitten to his chest. Then he brought it over to his mom to show it to her; she had to remind him he had more presents to open. Quinn found me in the crowd, with a big proud smile on her face. I picked her up and squeezed her, “He liked his snuggle buddy, Mom,” she said, pleased with her gift. I was pleased to know that she hasn't yet left that happy, safe time in life when each person gets to just be who she and he wants to be.

For half of the party we watched a new Disney documentary about grizzly bears. I was sitting on a couch between two moms, with four little kids stretched out on our laps, watching contentedly for an impressive amount of time. Eventually they started moving around in the open space of the theater. The footage on the screen was spectacular: massive wide angle views of Alaska--mountains, rivers, forests, ocean--close-ups of bears, wolves, eagles, and fish. It was mesmerizing. The kids kept getting closer and closer to the screen. After a while, one and then the others climbed onto the little stage directly below it. They got as close as they could and looked up at what must’ve been, from that angle, massive and breathtaking. I could see Quinn in among them. At one point, she stood with her arms reaching up over her head, as if to touch all that wild nature towering above her. It was a stunning image...all those tiny people, girls and boys, still unhindered by expectations and limitations, staring up at big wilderness...all of it uncharted territory. So much possibility.

"Nothing will work unless you do." - Maya Angelou

Your Mother's House

It’s Friday morning and I’m in class. My seniors are doing their weekly forty-five minute writing exercise. Each time we do it, I give them a prompt to start from. Today, two days before Mother’s Day, I’ve given them this: Write about your mom. What do you appreciate about her? What do you miss when you’re not with her? Describe the times when you call her, or find her in the house to talk. 

As an afterthought, I’ve allowed for this possibility: Maybe you and your mother are not close...why do you think that is the case?

I sit here wondering what they are writing about their moms, and I wonder too how Quinn might respond to this question ten or twelve years from now. I hope she won’t choose the afterthought.

Inevitably, I’m sitting here thinking too about the conceptual intersection between my daughter and my mother. As I always am.

Soon after we returned from our April roadtrip, with stops at her grandparents’ house on our way to and from the beach, Quinn asked me, “What is your mom’s name?” I reminded her. “Claire. Remember? You have her name in your name.” I showed Quinn her picture again. In the past when the subject of my mother has come up, Quinn’s questions have been limited to what she can see: why is she holding that puppy? what color is her hair? This time was different. “When can we go to your mom’s house?”

It was funny, in the absurd way, to think about the possibility that I simply hadn’t chosen to bring Quinn to visit my mom--as if I had never gotten around to it, or for some reason didn’t want to go. But her question was sincere, and she waited for my answer. I didn’t really have one prepared.

“She doesn’t have a house anymore.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t live anywhere anymore…”

Obviously, Quinn didn’t understand. I offered up heaven, but that didn’t really work; perhaps she could tell even I didn’t know what I was talking about.

In another conversation recently, Quinn said, “Remember that time we went to the movie with your mom?” I was surprised by that question too. “Yeah! Mom! Remember? It was the movie about the planes.” Sam and I looked at each other across the counter. The movie about the planes was the first movie we took her to see. I loved the idea of my mom being there with us, looking on, smiling as she always is when I dream about her. The dreamer in me allowed for the possibility that my mother had been there with Quinn and Quinn knew it--that the two of them had found a way to meet in some sphere beyond what the skeptics could perceive. 

Wanting proof, I asked more questions. I was hopeful. But eventually I realized what Quinn was probably remembering.  “Was it the movie we saw with Mary?” I asked, “And her daughter Claire?” 

“Oh! Yeah,” she smiled, “that was it.”

This time, as I tried to explain where heaven was, things started to fall apart. My eyes watered against my will. Quinn studied my face, concerned. I said, “heaven is kind of everywhere,” but even I could hear my statement sounding like more of a question than an answer. She didn’t understand, of course, and I didn’t really expect her to. How do you explain to someone who is just starting to appreciate what it means to be alive that everyone who is alive must also die? How do you explain to your child that her mother won’t always be there? 

Maybe you don’t. 

“I don’t know how to say good bye,” I told my mom in the hospital. “You don’t,” she told me. “When you love someone this much, you don’t say goodbye.”