Rachel Zadok's Blog, page 3
November 14, 2012
a tall order for the weird mom
Tomorrow is Amber-Jane's last day at her first school. I didn't expect to feel so emotional, so sad, but I do. I've tried my best to explain to her that she's leaving and won't be going back, but she's too young to understand the concept of loss, especially as it's tempered by her excitement about our up-coming holiday. She's excited about going on a road trip to see caves and eat ice-cream on top of the mountain. And she's excited about going to a new school with Teacher Kelly, whom she's already bonded with. I've asked her if she's sad. She said no. Still, I feel the loss for her.
Perhaps I should have kept her at home, as I had originally planned, until she was three and ready to go to Waldorf instead of placing her in a temporary play school. I worry that the upheaval and loss of some of her first friends, especially James with whom she bonded closely, will make her commitment-phobic in later life. I feel guilty that I did not try harder to overcome my shyness and connect with the other parents, arrange a few play dates. It didn't help that a mom with kids in the same school told a mutual friend that I was the weird mom, the odd one out. It made making connections more difficult knowing my suburban mask was transparent. Still, I should have tried harder. Now it's too late.
*I'm beginning to understand that my mother felt every one of my sorrows, though not in the same way I did, or for the same reasons. Parenthood comes with obligations. When you fail to fulfill one obligation, it brings others into play. I had an obligation to smooth my child's path into society. I inadvertently placed obstacles in her way, now I must absorb her loss. To absorb our child's early sorrows is a mother's duty. Another is to try soften those sorrows when they begin to comprehend that life is sometimes cabbages. If that weren't enough, soon after we need to know when to let go and allow our children to experience private pain, without our advice or this-too-shall-pass-platitudes. It does, but it takes experience, not proverbs, to know that.
Early on my mother-journey, someone told me that when you have a child, your heart leaves your chest and begins to walk around, exposed to every small slight. At the time, Amber-Jane was just a grub. I hadn't begun to consider the philosophical nature of parenthood; I was just trying to get through each day with the minimal amount of baby poo and vomit on my clothes. That we were both still breathing at the end of each day was my miracle. Things are different now. The excreta has been neatly compartmentalised, and my responsibilities have expanded. The feeding and clothing and nappies, once the be-all and end-all of my existence, are now just punctuation. Now my mandate includes filling my daughter up with ideas and knowledge. And more than that, with the tools and social skills to get her through life, happy and hopeful. That's a tall order for the weird mom.
*Obligation and duty are the wrong words. There must be another word for things you must do because you love so much, but I don't have it at my disposal.
Perhaps I should have kept her at home, as I had originally planned, until she was three and ready to go to Waldorf instead of placing her in a temporary play school. I worry that the upheaval and loss of some of her first friends, especially James with whom she bonded closely, will make her commitment-phobic in later life. I feel guilty that I did not try harder to overcome my shyness and connect with the other parents, arrange a few play dates. It didn't help that a mom with kids in the same school told a mutual friend that I was the weird mom, the odd one out. It made making connections more difficult knowing my suburban mask was transparent. Still, I should have tried harder. Now it's too late.
*I'm beginning to understand that my mother felt every one of my sorrows, though not in the same way I did, or for the same reasons. Parenthood comes with obligations. When you fail to fulfill one obligation, it brings others into play. I had an obligation to smooth my child's path into society. I inadvertently placed obstacles in her way, now I must absorb her loss. To absorb our child's early sorrows is a mother's duty. Another is to try soften those sorrows when they begin to comprehend that life is sometimes cabbages. If that weren't enough, soon after we need to know when to let go and allow our children to experience private pain, without our advice or this-too-shall-pass-platitudes. It does, but it takes experience, not proverbs, to know that.
Early on my mother-journey, someone told me that when you have a child, your heart leaves your chest and begins to walk around, exposed to every small slight. At the time, Amber-Jane was just a grub. I hadn't begun to consider the philosophical nature of parenthood; I was just trying to get through each day with the minimal amount of baby poo and vomit on my clothes. That we were both still breathing at the end of each day was my miracle. Things are different now. The excreta has been neatly compartmentalised, and my responsibilities have expanded. The feeding and clothing and nappies, once the be-all and end-all of my existence, are now just punctuation. Now my mandate includes filling my daughter up with ideas and knowledge. And more than that, with the tools and social skills to get her through life, happy and hopeful. That's a tall order for the weird mom.
*Obligation and duty are the wrong words. There must be another word for things you must do because you love so much, but I don't have it at my disposal.
October 4, 2012
inertia - a clever title for a moan about my midlife crisis
Having finally come up with a workable end to my novel and polishing it to a sparkle, I am now beset by inertia. I have spent every evening of the last week lying on the sofa watching the most dreadful TV series, so bad in fact, I cannot name it for fear I shall never live down the shame. It bores me to tears; the story lines are sentimental, the dialogue constructed by stringing clichés together and the acting is mediocre, or more kindly, not bad, but not scintillating, which probably has more to do with the script than the quality of the performances. I find myself watching the actor's shiny foreheads and eyebrows more than anything else, looking for signs of Botox paralysis. Which made me realise that my inertia has more to do with the fact that I'm about to turn forty than the end of the novel.
For over a month now, my husband and close friends have asked repeatedly what my plans for the big four oh are. For over a month, I've made the same excuse; I don't have time to plan a party, I have a novel to finish. Which was true, but also not the only reason for avoiding party planning. I, like so many lines of bad Hollywood dialogue, am a cliché. I do not want to turn forty. And here is the reason:
In the About the Author section of my first novel, it says that Rachel Zadok was born in Johannesburg. She is thirty-three and lives in South London with her husband. Or something like that. I didn't question it at the time but, lately, I think about my age and wonder why they thought it important enough to print. Why disclose an author's age? Was it the significance of the number? Thirty-three does have spiritual connotations, being the age Jesus Christ was crucified. Will they print that I am forty in the About the Author section of my second novel, due out next April? And, if they do, what does that say about me? That I have not been very prolific? That I did not live up to my promise? Am I that person - the one who once had the world at her feet and then took a giant step off the face of the planet?
Forty is, in the words of my friend Lisa, one of those bitch birthdays where one tends to do a bit of debit and credit analysis. To my credit, I am a well-read, well-travelled, conscientious human being who gives a shit about poverty, the environment and the state of literature. I am a good friend with a tendency for honesty that can sometimes cross the line into tactless. In the debit box, I can put reluctant and lousy housewife, mediocre mother, and still a wannabe author.
A couple of weeks ago, a writer I have recently befriended called me famous. Hardly, I scoffed to which she replied, you don't even know how famous you are. Looking around my Nowheresville life makes me realize that my new friend may be deluded. Famous people do not have 35 people following their Facebook page, 95% of which are close personal friends being supportive. If famous people have blogs, they're designed by PR teams and not hosted by Blogger*, and the majority of their hits do not come from Lithuanian spammers trying to sell Viagra and fake Nikes via the comments section. Famous people do not worry about whether they're a burden to their agent, or their agent's assistant because their contract got lost in the mail and they need a new one sent over. I don't know what the life of a famous person is actually like, but I know this ain't it. And while I'm not seeking the kind of fame that has paparazzi camped on my doorstep, I would like my work to be recognized. I want to be invited to literary festivals and, most of all, I like to be read.
Forty is a stock taking birthday. It's half way to death more or less, and that makes one look back and assess how many dreams have been achieved. Tomorrow, I will cross that invisible divide between youth and middle-age and I am not the person I envisioned, or even close. By lying on the couch watching TV that bores me I have made the nights* leading up to my birthday drag. This inertia is an attempt to delay the inevitable. It's Botox of the soul. And it's rather pathetic and clichéd.
Ugh.
* No insult to Blogger intended, there's nothing wrong with Blogger.
** As a mother, I can do nothing to slow the hours when my daughter is awake. Toddlers live full speed.
For over a month now, my husband and close friends have asked repeatedly what my plans for the big four oh are. For over a month, I've made the same excuse; I don't have time to plan a party, I have a novel to finish. Which was true, but also not the only reason for avoiding party planning. I, like so many lines of bad Hollywood dialogue, am a cliché. I do not want to turn forty. And here is the reason:
In the About the Author section of my first novel, it says that Rachel Zadok was born in Johannesburg. She is thirty-three and lives in South London with her husband. Or something like that. I didn't question it at the time but, lately, I think about my age and wonder why they thought it important enough to print. Why disclose an author's age? Was it the significance of the number? Thirty-three does have spiritual connotations, being the age Jesus Christ was crucified. Will they print that I am forty in the About the Author section of my second novel, due out next April? And, if they do, what does that say about me? That I have not been very prolific? That I did not live up to my promise? Am I that person - the one who once had the world at her feet and then took a giant step off the face of the planet?
Forty is, in the words of my friend Lisa, one of those bitch birthdays where one tends to do a bit of debit and credit analysis. To my credit, I am a well-read, well-travelled, conscientious human being who gives a shit about poverty, the environment and the state of literature. I am a good friend with a tendency for honesty that can sometimes cross the line into tactless. In the debit box, I can put reluctant and lousy housewife, mediocre mother, and still a wannabe author.
A couple of weeks ago, a writer I have recently befriended called me famous. Hardly, I scoffed to which she replied, you don't even know how famous you are. Looking around my Nowheresville life makes me realize that my new friend may be deluded. Famous people do not have 35 people following their Facebook page, 95% of which are close personal friends being supportive. If famous people have blogs, they're designed by PR teams and not hosted by Blogger*, and the majority of their hits do not come from Lithuanian spammers trying to sell Viagra and fake Nikes via the comments section. Famous people do not worry about whether they're a burden to their agent, or their agent's assistant because their contract got lost in the mail and they need a new one sent over. I don't know what the life of a famous person is actually like, but I know this ain't it. And while I'm not seeking the kind of fame that has paparazzi camped on my doorstep, I would like my work to be recognized. I want to be invited to literary festivals and, most of all, I like to be read.
Forty is a stock taking birthday. It's half way to death more or less, and that makes one look back and assess how many dreams have been achieved. Tomorrow, I will cross that invisible divide between youth and middle-age and I am not the person I envisioned, or even close. By lying on the couch watching TV that bores me I have made the nights* leading up to my birthday drag. This inertia is an attempt to delay the inevitable. It's Botox of the soul. And it's rather pathetic and clichéd.
Ugh.
* No insult to Blogger intended, there's nothing wrong with Blogger.
** As a mother, I can do nothing to slow the hours when my daughter is awake. Toddlers live full speed.
August 29, 2012
the great women's month depression
I keep trying to write a blog post to express how I feel about this past month (Women's Month in SA) but every time I log in and begin to type, I'm overwhelmed by grief. Tears prick at my eyes but what I really want to do is to go against a lifetime of pacifism and anti-gun campainging and take up arms. I want to form an army of women and men who believe in the idea of women as human, as equal and deserving of respect and autonomy. I want to deploy that army to herd up the misogynists and absent fathers and husbands who believe in their right to demand sexual and menial tasks from their wives, boards of directors of companies that practice unequal pay based on whether or not your tackle is external or in, the entire Tea Party, politicians who parade out family values as a way to keep women barefoot and pregnant and tied to a stove, the Todd Akins and Jacob Zumas of this world, the ANC Women's League, yes you heard me, The ANC Women's League who support without question that bloated sexist corrupt man-pig currently sitting on the Presidential throne, and subjugate them to a decade of servitude and sex on demand, or rape as civilized people call it, while simultaneously stripping them of any and all rights to autonomy over their bodies and finances. Then, maybe then, they can begin to understand the human rights women have been fighting for for centuries, because they are not women's rights, they are human rights, the right any human being should be accorded no matter the chromosomal combination of their birth.
Er, wait a minute, Rachel, that sounds like rage, I hear you say. It's not, it is grief, because even though I would like to do those things, I can't. And that grieves me.
Er, wait a minute, Rachel, that sounds like rage, I hear you say. It's not, it is grief, because even though I would like to do those things, I can't. And that grieves me.
