Motherhood, The Second OldestProfession (2 page)

What kind of a mother would…

tip the tooth fairy?

Donna (Donna Reed Show),

Harriet (0zzie and Harriet),

Barbara (Leave It to Beaver),

Shirley (Partridge Family),

Marjorle (Make Eoom for Daddy),

Jane (Father Knows Best),

Florence (The Brady Bunch)

Among them they had twenty-two children, six husbands, and three maids. For two decades, during the Fifties and Sixties, they were role models for every mother in the country.

They looked better cleaning their houses than most of us looked at our wedding.

They never lost their temper, gained weight, spent more money than their husbands made, or gave viewers any reason not to believe they were living out their lives in celibacy.

They never scrubbed a toilet, were never invaded by roaches, never shouted, and no one ever knew what they did between the time their families left in the morning and came home in the evening.

Every week you viewed a miracle—seven out of seven women who got their figures back after having children.

Their collective virtue was patience. There was no situation too traumatic for them to cure with milk and cookies, no problem that could not be resolved in twenty-four minutes, plus four minutes for commercials and two minutes for theme and credits.

I often wondered what would happen if one of their children had slammed a fellow student against the paper towel machine in the school restroom and extorted his milk money.

There's no doubt in my mind:

Donna would have called a family conference. Barbara would have met Ward at the door and said, “Dinner's ready.”

Shirley would have taken away his drums for a week. Marjorie would have changed her nail polish. Harriet would have sent Ozzie out for ice cream. Jane would have invited the rip-offee to dinner. And Florence would have her live-in bake extra brownies.

It was the age of God, Motherhood, Flag, and Apple Pie. All you had to do to be a mother was to put on an apron.

No one did it better than the prime-time mothers.

I was one of the not-quite-ready-for-prime-time mothers.

I never wore hose around the house all day, nor did I know anyone personally who did.

My kids were the ones the prime-time mothers forbade their kids to play with or else they would get into trouble.

I never ironed my husband's pajamas.

If I raised my hand to wipe the hair out of my children's eyes, they'd flinch and call their attorney.

We all knew prime-time mothers were too good to be true. (I once bragged that I saved a diabetic's life by throwing my body in front of a Donna Reed rerun.) But God, how we wanted them to be.

I had a fantasy once about Jane.

She had one of those pantyhose-on-backwards days. You know, the kind when you don't know if you're going or coming. Betty had borrowed and sweated in her new Christmas sweater, she discovered a nude calendar stashed between Bud's mattress and his dust ruffle, and Kathy hadn't spoken to her for three days.

Her mother volunteered the advice, “You should be more strict with those children,” and the ground was real mushy around their septic tank.

The bank called and said she had written a check to cover an “overdraft,” the cleaner called to say the patches fell off Jim's favorite jacket, and someone sprayed an obscene set of directions on her picket fence.

The fantasy always ended with Jane standing in the middle of the mess and delivering a four-letter word before she fell apart. I felt rewarded somehow.

Whatever the television mothers were, they got the message across that they were doing something important. They were the hub of the family that held it all together. And it only took thirty minutes a week to do it.

It was the not-ready-for-prime-time mothers who questioned it in the late Sixties.

They questioned the long days. The lack of fringe benefits. The run-and-fetch syndrome. The question, “What kind of a day did you have?” and the answer that fell on deaf ears.

It started out as a ripple of discontent, gathering momentum through the Seventies. By the Eighties the dissidents were a force to be dealt with, as fifty-two percent of all mothers had jobs outside the home.

Whatever happened to the Insulin Seven: Donna, Barbara, Shirley, Harriet, Marjorie, Jane, and Florence? They disappeared beneath a tidal wave of reality.

Oh, occasionally one of them returns to the tube in mid-afternoon on reruns. There are few mothers home to watch them at that time, only latch-key children, eating pizza in front of the set, who must wonder what indeed they are . . . these dinosaurs in aprons who roam the Earth smiling wisely and pouring milk.

Ironically, I miss them in spite of their maddening perfection. And I envy them a little because they seemed so fulfilled.

I ask myself why. Maybe it was because they got paid so well for being a mother and the season lasted only twenty-six weeks. Maybe it was because they only had the kids for thirty minutes a week and then they could send them back to wherever they came from.

Maybe it was even a little applause when they did a difficult scene.

Or maybe . . . maybe it was because they neve"- had to face life between the hours the family left in the morning and returned in the evening.

Prime-time mothers.

Fade out.

End of show.

End of an era.

What kind of a mother would...

go an entire day without shaving?

Frank

On October 15, 1979, Frank Rutledge became the mother of Adam, fourteen; Caroline, twelve; and Teddy, age six, thus becoming the first suburban mother in Rochester with a mustache who wasn't on estrogen.

The new role came out of a conversation six months earlier, when Frank confessed he was “burnt out” from working at the ad agency. He was sick of cereal boxes that tap danced and termites wearing tutus. All he wanted to do was to stay home and work on his novel.

His wife, Ann, was ecstatic with his decision. She had missed the sexual revolution, arrived late for the women's movement, let the kids borrow her self-esteem, and refused to begin her midlife crisis until she lost ten pounds. The idea of going anyplace where she didn't have to cut up everyone's meat titillated her.

They agreed to try it for a year. Ann would go to work and sell office supplies and Frank would stay home and write. It seemed like a simple decision. After all, the President of the United States had been working from his home for years.

There were, however, a few appreciable differences.

1. The President of the United States was never summoned from a high-level phone conversation that could alter the course of history to hear a voice yell, “We're out of toilet paper!”

2. Pest-control men did not shuffle through the White House spraying his feet with insecticide.

3. The First Lady never called from her downtown office with instructions for him to “go to the garage. Turn the power mower on its back and just under the right rotary blade see a serial number. Copy it down and call it in to the repair shop so we won't get caught again when the grass needs cutting.”

By November 22, after a month of chasing escaped gerbils and listening all day to “I'm telling,” Frank ripped the blank piece of paper out of his typewriter and made a second decision.

He decided to put off writing his novel. Instead he would keep a diary on his experiences as a house-husband.

It would sell. He knew it would. He couldn't go into a bookstore without seeing an entire section of books on domestic drolleries, the covers showing frazzled-looking women in aprons and dogs nipping at their heels. After all, how many men had experienced what he was going through? It would be a book of humor. He would call it, “A Frank Look at Mothering.” (God, he loved the title.)

It should also be noted that on November 22, 1979, Rochester, New York, began its coldest winter on record, with eighty-nine inches of snow falling in a six-month period.

At first Frank loved the snow. Sitting at his typewriter, he would call to one of the children as they scurried past his door and patiently explain there were no two snowflakes alike. He even insisted they trace the patterns of ice that they made on the glass.

On December 3, school was closed due to “an act of God.”

For the next ten days, Frank was charged with the responsibility of keeping three children from killing one another. Fie found himself saying nothing while watching Teddy force a button up his nostril.

He watched Caroline color his marriage license and all he could mumble was, “Stay in the lines.”

He was numb as he observed the chandelier over the dining room table shake as Adam used his bed for a trampoline.

The house had wet clothes drying all over it and smelled like a wet possum in heat.

By December 30, 1979, Frank had scribbled only three entries in his diary:

1. There is no God.

2. Cute Teddy story. He can't say “spaghetti.” Pronounces it “gasphetti.” Needs work.

3. Ann got me trash compactor for Christmas. (This was crossed out and a note made, “No humor here.”)

There were a few entries after that. "January 15, 1980:

Loneliness in suburbs is a myth. Teddy is on half days and changes clothes eight times between 8 am and bedtime. He has a costume for everything, from watching Captain Kangaroo to spitting on sister's dessert. I have not been alone in the bathroom since October.

"Jan. 17: Have much to learn. Beverly from next door was here having coffee when I started to clear the table and scrape leftovers into garbage can.

"She said no one throws away anything straight from the table. It is written somewhere no one buries garbage 'before its time.' Garbage, if it's made right, takes a full week.

"Jan. 26: Tried new liver casserole from Better Homes and Gardens (serves six, takes sixteen minutes to make). Blew budget on mushrooms, scallions, Brie, and Cabernet Sau-vignon.

"Ann had it for lunch.

"Caroline's teacher called. I'm a homeroom mother.

"Feb. 1: Better Homes and Gardens lied. The liver serves sixteen over a six-day period. Beverly made it too, only she left out the scallions, Brie, mushrooms, and liver.

“Feb. 27: I am losing my mind. Everyday I put a dozen or so pairs of socks into the washer. When the washer is shut off, there is only one sock left out of each pair. Adam, Caroline, and Teddy are ticked off about socks and want to know where they go. I told them they went to live with Jesus. I hate my job.”

During all of March and April, Frank did not record anything in his diary. In March, the house died. It wasn't a pretty death. The dryer went out the night Teddy had a virus and threw up on three sets of sheets, the washer gave out two days later, followed by the water heater, the vacuum sweeper, and the steam iron. The car battery went dead on the very day Frank was carpooling eight seventh graders on a field trip through a meat-packing plant. And he missed “General Hospital.”

Besides, no one noticed what he did. Or even cared. Ann popped in one night with three extra guests for dinner. She didn't even notice that he took the bent fork.

Spring was supposed to come to Rochester in April, but it couldn't land because of the snow. There was nothing for Frank to live for. No white sales. No sun for a tan. He was getting fat. And the kids were making him squirrelly.

One night, after Ann had missed dinner with them all week and they were getting ready for bed, she said, “Did I tell you I've been promoted and I think I'm suffering from Success Anxiety?”

“Feed an anxiety, starve a fever,” mumbled Frank.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Frank. “Everything's perfect. I can't get anyone to help me void eggs for Teddy's class to decorate for Easter. I get as far as 'Could you help me suck six eggs?' and they hang up. Adam is the only fourteen-year-old in North America who does not have an alligator on his shirt and you fall asleep in a chair every night. We never talk anymore.”

“What is it?” asked Ann, tired. “Do you want to redo the house?”

“That's right,” said Frank. “Toss me a couple of new sofa pillows and I'll go away.”

“Look, why don't you get a new hair style?”

He chewed on his fingernail. “I'm trying to let it grow. I told you that!”

“I know,” said Ann. “Let's take a vacation. Just the two of us.”

"May 17: Trip was a bummer. Instead of being off by ourselves, we met another couple from Ann's office. She and Phyllis talked shop all night. Jack was childless. All he talked about was sports, his job, and his boat. We had nothing in common. Besides, I missed the kids and cut it short to get back in time for Caroline's baton-twirling recital. She only touched pits once!

"May 26: God, I'm bored. Finally stored the Christmas ornaments. Beverly has decided to have the implants. I wish I could do something drastic to change my appearance. I have no appetite, I'm tired all the time, I don't feel well in the mornings, and if I didn't know better I'd think I was . . . my God, what am I saying?

"May 29: School is out for the summer. Beverly told me about a wonderful camp. It's out of the city and has fresh air and tons of activities that develop skills. It lasts for two weeks but it helps everyone to be around contemporaries and do something else besides watch game shows and eat popcorn all afternoon.

"I'd love to go, but who would keep the kids?

"Aug. 24: Can't wait for Ann to get home so I can tell her about Reflexology. A woman in the beauty shop where I have my hair cut said I can clear up my sinuses by rubbing the back of my toe. She said every organ in my body is projected onto a corresponding spot on the sole of my foot.

“Aug. 25: Ann said it's unnatural for someone to sit around playing with their feet. We don't relate to each other anymore. What I do is never important.”

Late one evening in November, Frank flipped off the kitchen light and slowly made his way to the dining room table where Ann was paying bills.

“You're a fool,” she said sharply. “Why don't you make the kids do the dishes?”

“Because I found a piece of gasphetti on my plate the other night.”

“So, someone was a little careless.”

“Ann, we use those dishes every night and we haven't had gasphetti in three weeks.”

“You're going to have to learn to be firm.”

“Ann,” said F'rank after a long pause, “write me a check.”

"For what?'

“For me.”

“Frank, what do you want a check for? If you need something, just take it out of household.”

“I want to know that I am worth something.” “You're serious, aren't you?” said Ann, putting down her calculator.

“Do you know that one day last week I didn't hear one human voice all day? Everyone I talked to was a recording—the bank, the elevator, your office, the school, a wrong number. You used to be able to call a wrong number and get a person.”

“You're tired, Frank. You should take naps.” “I cook food and someone eats it. I make beds and someone wrinkles them up again. I scrub floors and someone tracks mud on them. It never ends.”

“That's what the job is all about,” said Ann. “It's not the job,” said Frank. “I remember when I used to come home from work and the kids would say, 'Hi, Dad.' Do you know what they say now? They come in and look me right in the eye and say, 'Anyone home?' I'M HOME, DAMMIT! I'M A PERSON! And they don't see a person anymore.”

Ann shook her head. “Look around you, Frank. You've got a nice home, a yard, three children, freedom to do whatever you want all day. You've got your own car, enough appliances to open up your own store, a wife who takes care of you, and a pound and a half of credit cards. I give up! I don't know what you men want!”