by Elizabeth Gilbert
When I was in the third grade, our class put on a play called The Lemonade Stand. Which told the story of, well, a lemonade stand. Which featured three little girls spending a lot of time waiting for something to happen. Which may sound like an avant-garde Samuel Beckett production but was actually just one of those generic plays written for third-graders, wherein all 25 kids in the class get to say at least one line. Except for the three female leads, who, naturally, get to be onstage, selling lemonade, and speaking the whole time.
Now, I don't want to boast, but I was a formidable performer back in the third grade. My older sister and I had already produced dozens of plays in our living room, and my voice was capable of projecting power-fully across the school auditorium (and everywhere else, I'm afraid), so there was no question in my mind that I was a natural choice for one of the leading roles. Nonetheless, show business is a cruel mistress and I did not get cast as one of the starring lemonade girls. What I got instead was the part of Mrs. Fields—the only adult character in the play. Surely this made sense to Mrs. Domino (the director of this production) because I was about 11 inches taller than everyone else my age. Fine, except that Mrs. Fields was one of the smallest roles. Mrs. Fields had exactly two lines.
Was I angry? No—I was shattered. And in my sorrow, I did something so completely out of character that I still can't really believe it myself: I walked up to Mrs. Domino and basically told her where she could stick her stupid play. And then I quit the stupid play. And then I sobbed for approximately the next seven hours.
This is where my mother comes in. Such moments of high distress are true tests of parenting. My mother is not a saint or a paragon; she's just a woman who, like many mothers, tried to do her best with her kids, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding. But this was the moment of my life where she succeeded perhaps most brilliantly, where she really did it right.
First of all—what she didn't do: She didn't charge into the principal's office demanding that her daughter be given a better part, nor did she congratulate me on having quit the play, saying, "Yeah, screw Mrs. Domino." She never indicated that the three-headed monster shouldn't have been given the starring role, nor did she allow my letdown to feed her own insecurities, worrying that her child (therefore, she herself) was a failure. And, of course, she'd never have dreamed of scorning my sorrow with a comment like "Buck up, kiddo—crap happens. Now go get Mommy another beer."
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What she did do was to assemble an extraordinary step-by-step program of loving reconstruction. First came solace. I sobbed, she soothed. But—in childhood grief, as with the adult variety—solace is beneficial for only so long. Which is why my mother finally wiped my nose and asked, "Don't youwant to be in the play, sweetheart?" I did! But I wanted to be one of the three starring lemonade girls! Or nothing!
Yes, she agreed, naturally. But given the reality that I couldn't be a lemonade girl, wouldn't I feel left out to be the only child who wasn't in the play at all? I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't imagined what it would feel like to watch as everyone else had fun putting on a play.
"Sometimes the smallest parts are the most unforgettable," she went on. "What if you and I made sure Mrs. Fields was really memorable?"
As my mother laid out her cunning plan, I could almost feel the tears crawling back up my cheeks. But first, my mother said, I had to apologize to Mrs. Domino for having called her a stupid stupid-head, and humbly ask for my part back. I agreed, shamefaced. The next morning, though, when I made my nervous apology to Mrs. Domino, she was like, "What? Oh, yeah, no problem." It was as if she had no recollection of my massive personal drama. (Thus handing me yet another important life lesson: Nobody's really paying that much attention to your massive personal dramas.)
Over the next month, my mother threw herself into helping me create a Mrs. Fields who would never be forgotten. Or at least that's how it felt to me. Looking back on it now, mind you, it occurs to me that she probably had other things going on besides her 8-year-old daughter's play. She had, for instance, a small family farm to run, a nursing job to maintain, another daughter to raise, and a marriage to attend to. But I didn't notice any of that. Because somehow, in those four weeks, she made me feel as though she had nothing better to do than run my two boring lines with me constantly, as though we were rehearsing Ophelia for the Royal Shakespeare Company. We experimented with accents, motivations, and fancy walking styles. Best of all, at a local thrift shop, we found an awesome Mrs. Fields costume—a vibrant pink vintage ball gown with matching high heels, purse, and sun hat. (A particularly noticeable getup, given that no other kids were wearing costumes.)
Opening day: The play droned to life. Bored parents fanned themselves in the audience, straining to hear mumbled lines. When I exploded onto the stage, as confident as (and dressed rather like) a drag queen, I could feel the crowd pop awake. Towering over the cast, I sashayed toward the lemonade stand and drawled languidly, "May ah have an oatmeal cookie and a glass of lemonade?" (The honeyed Southern accent had been my mother's brilliant, last-minute suggestion.)
The audience hollered with laughter. Still in character, I drawled my next and final line ("Thank yoooouuu!") to the three dumbfounded stars and began my exit. But—not so fast. The audience was still laughing, still loving this 8-year-old Blanche DuBois. And that's when I had a clarion revelation:They still need me! This is when I made the charitable decision to give the crowd just a little more Mrs. Fields. Instead of heading for the wings, I swished back to center stage, dropped an imaginary quarter on the lemonade stand, and ad-libbed, "Keep the change, sugar. "
Yes, she agreed, naturally. But given the reality that I couldn't be a lemonade girl, wouldn't I feel left out to be the only child who wasn't in the play at all? I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't imagined what it would feel like to watch as everyone else had fun putting on a play.
"Sometimes the smallest parts are the most unforgettable," she went on. "What if you and I made sure Mrs. Fields was really memorable?"
As my mother laid out her cunning plan, I could almost feel the tears crawling back up my cheeks. But first, my mother said, I had to apologize to Mrs. Domino for having called her a stupid stupid-head, and humbly ask for my part back. I agreed, shamefaced. The next morning, though, when I made my nervous apology to Mrs. Domino, she was like, "What? Oh, yeah, no problem." It was as if she had no recollection of my massive personal drama. (Thus handing me yet another important life lesson: Nobody's really paying that much attention to your massive personal dramas.)
Over the next month, my mother threw herself into helping me create a Mrs. Fields who would never be forgotten. Or at least that's how it felt to me. Looking back on it now, mind you, it occurs to me that she probably had other things going on besides her 8-year-old daughter's play. She had, for instance, a small family farm to run, a nursing job to maintain, another daughter to raise, and a marriage to attend to. But I didn't notice any of that. Because somehow, in those four weeks, she made me feel as though she had nothing better to do than run my two boring lines with me constantly, as though we were rehearsing Ophelia for the Royal Shakespeare Company. We experimented with accents, motivations, and fancy walking styles. Best of all, at a local thrift shop, we found an awesome Mrs. Fields costume—a vibrant pink vintage ball gown with matching high heels, purse, and sun hat. (A particularly noticeable getup, given that no other kids were wearing costumes.)
Opening day: The play droned to life. Bored parents fanned themselves in the audience, straining to hear mumbled lines. When I exploded onto the stage, as confident as (and dressed rather like) a drag queen, I could feel the crowd pop awake. Towering over the cast, I sashayed toward the lemonade stand and drawled languidly, "May ah have an oatmeal cookie and a glass of lemonade?" (The honeyed Southern accent had been my mother's brilliant, last-minute suggestion.)
The audience hollered with laughter. Still in character, I drawled my next and final line ("Thank yoooouuu!") to the three dumbfounded stars and began my exit. But—not so fast. The audience was still laughing, still loving this 8-year-old Blanche DuBois. And that's when I had a clarion revelation:They still need me! This is when I made the charitable decision to give the crowd just a little more Mrs. Fields. Instead of heading for the wings, I swished back to center stage, dropped an imaginary quarter on the lemonade stand, and ad-libbed, "Keep the change, sugar. "
PAGE 3
At which point, you know—the show pretty much had to be cancelled on account of audience riot.
Afterward I stood in the school hallway, collecting compliments as though they were bouquets of roses. It had been a mighty victory, and, with Mom standing quietly beside me, I knew it had been her victory, too. My mother had grown up poor and underestimated, always cast into roles smaller than she was worth. Having succeeded in life despite being told she wasn't bright enough to go to nursing school, or sophisticated enough to be a naval officer's wife, she well knew the pleasure of exceeding people's expectations. So it was probably a culminating joy for both of us when the principal shook my mother's hand and said, "You should take this kid to Hollywood."
Final moment of perfect parenting? She didn't.
No, there would be no more stage mothering from Carole Gilbert. Instead Mom let me revel in exactly one hour of triumph, then took me home for an afternoon of household chores. The most significant part of the day was over, anyhow. Not the thunderous applause part, but the part where a mother had conveyed successfully to her young daughter these five critical survival lessons of life:
1. Make the most of whatever you are dealt.
2. If you are given only one opportunity to speak, be certain your voice is heard.
3. Have a ball.
4. Perfect your character relentlessly. And most important—
5. If life gives you lemons, don't settle for simply making lemonade—make a glorious scene at a lemonade stand.
Afterward I stood in the school hallway, collecting compliments as though they were bouquets of roses. It had been a mighty victory, and, with Mom standing quietly beside me, I knew it had been her victory, too. My mother had grown up poor and underestimated, always cast into roles smaller than she was worth. Having succeeded in life despite being told she wasn't bright enough to go to nursing school, or sophisticated enough to be a naval officer's wife, she well knew the pleasure of exceeding people's expectations. So it was probably a culminating joy for both of us when the principal shook my mother's hand and said, "You should take this kid to Hollywood."
Final moment of perfect parenting? She didn't.
No, there would be no more stage mothering from Carole Gilbert. Instead Mom let me revel in exactly one hour of triumph, then took me home for an afternoon of household chores. The most significant part of the day was over, anyhow. Not the thunderous applause part, but the part where a mother had conveyed successfully to her young daughter these five critical survival lessons of life:
1. Make the most of whatever you are dealt.
2. If you are given only one opportunity to speak, be certain your voice is heard.
3. Have a ball.
4. Perfect your character relentlessly. And most important—
5. If life gives you lemons, don't settle for simply making lemonade—make a glorious scene at a lemonade stand.
PAGE 4
A Talent to Amazeby Anne Fadiman
Good mothers are supposed to feed sick children steaming chicken soup, coax medicine down their throats, and swaddle them in quilts. Whenever I had a cold, my mother did all the above, in addition to uncomplainingly scooping up the mounds of moist Kleenexes that had missed the wastebasket. (Basketball was always my worst sport.) But she also believed firmly in the therapeutic properties of nature.
We lived on a largish property in then-rural Connecticut, the sort of place where my brother and I could be permitted, without fear of prying neighborly eyes, to dance naked on the back lawn before a rain, when the sky had turned what we called thunderstorm green. It was also the sort of place that harbored such a ravishing array of wildlife—pheasants, foxes, pileated woodpeckers—that we might as well have lived on the African veld. Once, when I was 5 or 6 or 7, I caught a flu-y cold, or perhaps it was a cold-y flu, in the middle of winter. I was too sick to read, too sick even to watchCaptain Kangaroo. My mother bustled up to my bedroom and announced we were going outside.
Outside?
She was already dressed in a wool jacket and boots. She wrapped me in several blankets, hoisted me against her shoulder, and stomped out through the snow. We could see our breath condense in the freezing air. After a minute or so, she stopped in front of a blue spruce. There, in a low branch not ten feet from us, was a baby owl, its incompletely fledged feathers fluffed against the cold.
We watched it together, in silence, for a minute or so, and then my mother carried me back to bed. I wish I could say my fever broke instantly, but I doubt that was true. I can say, however, that during the next 40 years, until my mother's death, a single four-word sentence, spoken by either of us, conjured up all that was best about childhood. It was: "Remember the baby owl?"
Anne Fadiman is a National Book Critics Circle Award-winning author and essayist for The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down (1997). She is also the author of two books of essays, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader (1998) and At Large and At Small: Familiar Essays (2007).
Good mothers are supposed to feed sick children steaming chicken soup, coax medicine down their throats, and swaddle them in quilts. Whenever I had a cold, my mother did all the above, in addition to uncomplainingly scooping up the mounds of moist Kleenexes that had missed the wastebasket. (Basketball was always my worst sport.) But she also believed firmly in the therapeutic properties of nature.
We lived on a largish property in then-rural Connecticut, the sort of place where my brother and I could be permitted, without fear of prying neighborly eyes, to dance naked on the back lawn before a rain, when the sky had turned what we called thunderstorm green. It was also the sort of place that harbored such a ravishing array of wildlife—pheasants, foxes, pileated woodpeckers—that we might as well have lived on the African veld. Once, when I was 5 or 6 or 7, I caught a flu-y cold, or perhaps it was a cold-y flu, in the middle of winter. I was too sick to read, too sick even to watchCaptain Kangaroo. My mother bustled up to my bedroom and announced we were going outside.
Outside?
She was already dressed in a wool jacket and boots. She wrapped me in several blankets, hoisted me against her shoulder, and stomped out through the snow. We could see our breath condense in the freezing air. After a minute or so, she stopped in front of a blue spruce. There, in a low branch not ten feet from us, was a baby owl, its incompletely fledged feathers fluffed against the cold.
We watched it together, in silence, for a minute or so, and then my mother carried me back to bed. I wish I could say my fever broke instantly, but I doubt that was true. I can say, however, that during the next 40 years, until my mother's death, a single four-word sentence, spoken by either of us, conjured up all that was best about childhood. It was: "Remember the baby owl?"
Anne Fadiman is a National Book Critics Circle Award-winning author and essayist for The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down (1997). She is also the author of two books of essays, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader (1998) and At Large and At Small: Familiar Essays (2007).
PAGE 5
Mother Moxie
by Lorene Cary
We'd been close to here before, Mommy and I. The problem was, she said, I had to stand up for myself. I'd have to learn to fight for myself. I had to stop letting people push me around.
The cement sidewalks smelled chalky, dirty, gray like they always did just before rain. How would I find the boy? What would I do if I found him? What would I do if I didn't? I put blinders on myself like they did in Black Beauty when they walked the horses through the burning barn. I kept going, distracting myself with scenarios. I'd walk until dark, until hunger and thirst made me cry. Maybe the boy would find me and beat me. They'd find my body in an alley. Then she'd be very, very sorry.
I did not get all the way to the stop when I saw it, the book bag, my book bag, tossed aside, like salvation. Dear Lord. Mine again, papers intact. I spun around to survey the street from all angles before I picked it up, closed the rifled compartments, and slung it over my shoulder that had missed the familiar weight. Pique surprised me as much as the sight of the thing itself. I told that boy I didn't have any money. I told him.
When I came home, my mother was proud of me, and I basked in that pride. She admired tough people, and for once, I'd shown some moxie. But I also learned what I could do myself. She made me walk away—from her. For a young mother to whom mothering was everything, it was the biggest sacrifice she could make, one that she chose to make again and again, each time with greater understanding of the importance—and loss.
Lorene Cary is the author of Free!: Great Escapes from Slavery on the Underground Railroad.
^^^
by Lorene Cary
We'd been close to here before, Mommy and I. The problem was, she said, I had to stand up for myself. I'd have to learn to fight for myself. I had to stop letting people push me around.
The cement sidewalks smelled chalky, dirty, gray like they always did just before rain. How would I find the boy? What would I do if I found him? What would I do if I didn't? I put blinders on myself like they did in Black Beauty when they walked the horses through the burning barn. I kept going, distracting myself with scenarios. I'd walk until dark, until hunger and thirst made me cry. Maybe the boy would find me and beat me. They'd find my body in an alley. Then she'd be very, very sorry.
I did not get all the way to the stop when I saw it, the book bag, my book bag, tossed aside, like salvation. Dear Lord. Mine again, papers intact. I spun around to survey the street from all angles before I picked it up, closed the rifled compartments, and slung it over my shoulder that had missed the familiar weight. Pique surprised me as much as the sight of the thing itself. I told that boy I didn't have any money. I told him.
When I came home, my mother was proud of me, and I basked in that pride. She admired tough people, and for once, I'd shown some moxie. But I also learned what I could do myself. She made me walk away—from her. For a young mother to whom mothering was everything, it was the biggest sacrifice she could make, one that she chose to make again and again, each time with greater understanding of the importance—and loss.
Lorene Cary is the author of Free!: Great Escapes from Slavery on the Underground Railroad.
^^^
Oprah says that for the world to value motherhood, women everywhere should stand up and declare that it must be so. Shout it from the mountaintops!
I believe the choice to become a mother is the choice to become one of the greatest spiritual teachers there is. To create an environment that's stimulating and nurturing, to pass on a sense of responsibility to another human being, to raise a child who understands that he or she is created from good and is capable of anything—I know for sure that few callings are more honorable. To play down mothering as small is to crack the very foundation on which greatness stands.
The world can only value mothering to the extent that women everywhere stand and declare that it must be so. In our hands, we hold the power to transform the perception of motherhood. Whether we decide to work full-time while raising children, stay home with our kids, or bear no children at all, we need to understand that any put-down of the decision to mother is a threat to women's choices everywhere. We should no longer allow a mother to be defined as "just a mom." It is on her back that great nations are built. We should no longer allow any woman's voice to be drowned out or disregarded. As we affirm other women, and as we teach our sons, husbands and friends to hold them in the highest regard, we honor both the mothers whose shoulders we've stood on and the daughters who will one day stand tall on ours.
In May—and every other month of the year—I honor and thank every great spiritual teacher who goes by the name of Mother.
Read more: http://www.oprah.com/relationships/oprah-on-motherhood#ixzz496XDFN00
Read more: http://www.oprah.com/relationships/great-moments-in-mothering-life-lessons-learned-from-moms#ixzz496VxCI46
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