and baby makes who?
Last week I had to go to campus to rescue my dissertation from the uncertain hell that returning all sixty-eight of my dissertation books would have caused. I had to show up in person to convince the library privileges adjudicator that hauling sixty-eight books to the library (for the visual, that's six linear feet of books or twelve round trips from car-to-library carrying boxes of books while pushing a stroller) would be the kiss of death for my dissertation. I also brought him home-made caramels. Begrudgingly, he both restored my library privileges and waived the requirement of physically returning all my books. (But he did not thank me for the caramels!)
Anyway, the trip afforded me and Axel the chance to visit my department, where all the ladies were swept away by Axel's charm. While Axel ate bites of chicken and took things off shelves, I got to watch a video of a trapeze performance starring one of the department ladies.
As a child, I gave considerable and serious thought to becoming a trapeze artist; my first sport love was gymnastics, and swinging on the uneven bars my favorite event. That adults could be paid to experience the exhileration of swinging, flying and leaping while wearing spangled outfits boggled my mind.
Her performance was great--too short, in the opinion of one who can all too easily picture herself up there. And when it ended, we found ourselves in the middle of a discussion about what changes for a woman's identity after becoming a mother. "We" included the trapeze artist, childless by choice, a woman with three grown sons, and myself. There are so many ways to look at this question; yet without pausing to consider the question, I found myself blurting out: my autonomy.
It's a strange thing, particularly for a woman who cherishes independence, to become the point-person for a small being. In ways big and small, meeting the needs of a child comes before going where- and doing what-ever you want every minute of the day. While it's the big moments--like the thought of carting sixty-eight books back to the library with a small child in tow, or swinging thirty feet above ground while a small child watches--that remind me of the limits on my autonomy, it's the accumulation of minutes, day after day, that do their work on a woman's identity. Who I am, what I do, what I say, what I feel, how I think --all of this is channeled through the lens of parenthood.
There is, of course, much more about identity that changes with the arrival of one's child. Perhaps best to consider this the first installment of many. Stay tuned for part two: my heart outside of my body.
Anyway, the trip afforded me and Axel the chance to visit my department, where all the ladies were swept away by Axel's charm. While Axel ate bites of chicken and took things off shelves, I got to watch a video of a trapeze performance starring one of the department ladies.
As a child, I gave considerable and serious thought to becoming a trapeze artist; my first sport love was gymnastics, and swinging on the uneven bars my favorite event. That adults could be paid to experience the exhileration of swinging, flying and leaping while wearing spangled outfits boggled my mind.
Her performance was great--too short, in the opinion of one who can all too easily picture herself up there. And when it ended, we found ourselves in the middle of a discussion about what changes for a woman's identity after becoming a mother. "We" included the trapeze artist, childless by choice, a woman with three grown sons, and myself. There are so many ways to look at this question; yet without pausing to consider the question, I found myself blurting out: my autonomy.
It's a strange thing, particularly for a woman who cherishes independence, to become the point-person for a small being. In ways big and small, meeting the needs of a child comes before going where- and doing what-ever you want every minute of the day. While it's the big moments--like the thought of carting sixty-eight books back to the library with a small child in tow, or swinging thirty feet above ground while a small child watches--that remind me of the limits on my autonomy, it's the accumulation of minutes, day after day, that do their work on a woman's identity. Who I am, what I do, what I say, what I feel, how I think --all of this is channeled through the lens of parenthood.
There is, of course, much more about identity that changes with the arrival of one's child. Perhaps best to consider this the first installment of many. Stay tuned for part two: my heart outside of my body.
posted by aelis at 3:48 PM
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