On the Creative Class mother

Everytime I read something like this it cuts one of those tightly bound ropes of mothering perfectionism that coils around my life strangling any hopes of living a life above and beyond the routine. We often are our own worst enemy but expectations do not exist in a vacuum. They are created, encouraged and reinforced in such subversive ways that one can be forgiven for thinking that one is going mad rather than fighting against a largely invisible force. Stories like this are the real stories, stories from the trenches of marriage and motherhood.

blue milk

Because what my class of mothers consumes most is education. We know how precarious our world is, and how easily our children can fall out of it. We see the invisible line down the middle of the street that separates the good school district from the bad. We see the line that separates our Prius, hovering silently at the crosswalk, from the corner, where 50 lower-middle-class children wait for the bus. We see, at our Creative meetings, the line that separates state-college folk from Ivy alums. Clearly, the solutions for overwhelmed working mothers include either moving in with some kid-loving older relatives (but they’re Republicans! from Ohio!) or kicking it 1950s style by just letting their kids play with the other kids on the block. In my part of Los Angeles, this means going over to the Mexican-gardener neighbor’s house and jumping on an illegal trampoline with 11 children, five…

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About mumurings

mother, lawyer, philosopher, feminist, writer, artist
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