My voice still shakes a tiny bit as I read the piece I’ve just scribbled in the 20 minutes allotted to free-write on a topic given to us by our teacher. She and the six other women listen raptly as I finish reading, and then each of them sighs and gives me meaningful nods and murmurs. I mumble some form of explanation/excuse at the end to prolong the part before feedback begins, but I’m surprised at what I hear.

“That was really good - you really drew us in,” one mother says.
“I loved how you described each item you wrote about - I could picture them,” another one tells me.
“You painted a vivid scene that we could all see,” our teacher says.
I can’t help but ask the shy-artist question, “You really liked it?” to which I get more meaningful nods and murmurs before we move on to the next person.

I am left stunned and so very grateful. A piece I never would have written if not for the “writing start” in this writing class for moms has not only proved to be amazingly therapeutic for me, but also decent enough to gain my classmates’ approval. And that means a lot.

A month ago, I didn’t know these women. Well, I knew of the teacher, the journalist, Cori Howard, whose book had become my Bible for motherhood. Besides being both completely excited and intimidated by that fact, I could not wait to meet other women who shared my passion for writing about being moms. And now here I was, so very privileged to be a part of this circle of creative goddesses.

They are brilliantly bright, irreverently funny and so very honest. As one woman reads her piece, I laugh so hard I have to take my glasses off to wipe the tears from my eyes. But my tears turn real when her piece transitions to her serious fears and overwhelming uncertainty. We sit at the end of our leather bound chairs to listen to each other over the sound of the traffic and crosswalk signals. We hear family secrets and anguished reflections; we see snapshots of the ridiculous moments of parenthood and the sublime moments with children. In writing, we connect with our own truths, and in sharing, we connect with each other.

One woman writes of the inane conversations that happen amongst new mothers. And yet, here we are, a bunch of would-be strangers who also happen to be moms who write, exposing our vulnerabilities and sharing what’s most intimate. And as we find the guts to share with each other, we receive support from the circle. And in that support, we gain confidence to take more risks, to be honest to the core, and to keep writing.

Writing and motherhood, both solitary activities in this culture, have drawn us together. Now, as a collective, we are free to find our voice.

Writing Start: Finding My Voice

The sky is glowing with the bright lights of office towers gone idle and apartment buildings buzzing with the flashing lights of televisions. Street lights and traffic signs are alight in technicolour, piercing a
dark landscape with the reminder of civilization. We blaze through farms and along cold dark pavement.

My head rests lazily against the window of the car, the cold press of glass at my cheek is a small comfort. My husband is driving and I wish I could hear the thoughts bouncing around his head. I wonder if they are peaceful, finally, or tormented by the pain of the last few days and that feeling of helplessness as he let me slip through his hands like fine grains of sand.

I played in sand when I was a little girl - incessantly. Every summer Saturday found me grazing the shores of Lake Superior in a self-enclosed huddle of wet joy. I was in and out of the water, dosing my skin with the rough touch of sand, basking in the warm sun and dreaming of my future - the faraway lands I would surely visit, the fame I would relish and the touch of love and happiness I would find along the shores of my life - a boy to love, a child to create and call my own.

This is a place I come back to often in my mind, and as I sit in the virtual isolation of a hospital room - four, creamy walls of enclosed air - clutching my blanket clad knees to my chest, I think of the water and the sand. I clutch my grandfather’s rosary - made of beads the colour of deep crimson -
and stare into the face of my son - two-dimensional on photo paper.

I think of the land that nurtured me - the damp air of my childhood and all those lazy summer mornings engulfed in the care of nature where nothing truly mattered. Nothing really hurt and everything shone under the brightness of the sun. I think of the hill near the beach that led to my Grandfather’s house - the red brick sitting pretty atop green grass and dirt. But my adult mind is unable to glance at
the red stairs I used to take two at a time in a bid to be first in the water. I remember it now as the place my grandfather died, his body hitting the earth in poetic release.

It seems the memories of childhood are forever tainted by what happens to you as an adult. The soft touch of my mother’s voice at my cheek as she tucked me in at night is replaced now with the ferocious bite of a woman angered desperately trying to save her child, her baby - me -from further
humiliation. This had just transpired.

On the road home with my husband, the house filled with our son’s laugther, I think sadly back to what I am leaving behind. It is not just my grandfather’s dead body at the foot of the hill that
shattered my childhood, or the way in which the sands of Lake Superior will never again flow freely through my fingers. It is the way in which we are all changed by the events of our lives and how nothing will ever be the same. It is how the events of this past weekend - which saw me disentegrate into a pile of helplessness, losing myself to the hands of a mental illness that has eaten me alive for months on end - have changed everything.

I am no longer that child, running the shores of a beach in blissful ignorance thinking my future is full of stars. I am a grown woman looking at the cards I have been dealt , and trying to make them spell happiness.

The dark sky is a slow comfort to me as my husband speeds along the highway to our home, and away from the hospital where I spent the last few nights of my life locked away from the only slice of happiness I hold in my heart - the breath of my son, the heave of his chest, the careful part of his lips and the roll of his eyes as his mind is filled with dreams - perhaps of sandy beaches and a bright, glorious future.

Writing Start: Coming Home

“NO! Digger Land!” my three-year-old barks, “Bam, bang, shoot! I’m going to kill you! Poo poo!” He pushes it all into one long string. Then, “Eyeball, monster, I’m going to get you.” He laughs a bit manically, because he knows it will enrage his older sister.

My head clouds over and I’m paralyzed by what to say. They aren’t interested in me anyway; they continue to argue over which is better. “Princess, digger, princess, digger.” Where does this inanity come from? Please, make it stop. Why are they saying this? It’s so predictable. I feel myself being pulled into the camp that I so emotionally despise. The camp where I am tied to a tree and forced finally to recant all of my previous beliefs. “Yes, that’s right. Girls are sugar and spice and boys do only like lizards and puppy dog tails. There are differences, fundamental, genetic, predestined. I was wrong to fight it.”

I sometimes hear myself admitting to other mothers, “Yes, there are things that just seem to be more stereotypically ‘boy’ with my son.” His fascination with diggers and cement trucks; his desire to watch monster movies when his older sister is terrified of them; his interest in pirates and T-Rexes. I receive a knowing smile from the mothers, a conspiratorial look that says: “But of course. He’s a boy.” I feel like I’m betraying myself.

With my daughter, I was able to stave off this gender divide for a bit longer. I had her convinced, up until about 6 months ago, that she could be a paleontologist, that princesses weren’t really all that interesting, that she could wear a sweatshirt with a dinosaur on it, that trucks and race car stripes are meant for all kids. And it worked reasonably well. Until she started understanding the social code, and one by one these things vanished. She refused to wear her favourite dinosaur shirt, because a preschool classmate had asked why she was wearing boy’s clothes. She began to ask about Belle, Ariel, Cinderella, and Jasmine, telling me that on a scale of one to 10, she was at a one regarding how much she knew about princesses. She announced she was going to be a mother and a princess when she grew up and she no longer wanted to be a paleontologist. And she refused to ride her bike with racing stripes and said that trucks were only for boys. It all fell apart, all of my work.

Just last night she cried, racking desperate sobs, because her hair was short and it wasn’t long and beautiful. She said she hated her body, her hair. I held her not knowing how to comfort her, telling her over and over again how beautiful she was. “No, I’m not. I’m not beautiful. I have short, ugly hair. Everyone thinks I’m a boy. Everyone. I want people to think I’m a girl.”

I felt it inside of me, that piercing guilt, that this was of my making, that if only I had pigtailed her hair and dressed her in pink and skirts, that she wouldn’t be collapsed in a well of hurt on the floor in front of me.

Debates over girl and boy traits are polarized, ongoing and endlessly researched. There are a plethora of studies that chronicle the differences between girls and boys – what toys they choose to play with, what characteristics they lead with, what social and school environment they thrive best in, and what in all of this, is nature versus nurture.

When I was in my 20’s, I studied Women’s Studies and socialized with a feminist group. Not surprisingly, the literature that I read, and the discussions that I had, were strongly supportive of gender identities formed from socialization; that girls and boys were conditioned to be who they were and though biology played some role, it truly was a two-bit part. From a feminist perspective, the socialization of identities is critical, because it allows for an analysis which is not mired in biological certainties. It allows for a redefinition of ‘woman’ and ‘mother’ away from the elemental constraints of the physical. In other words, the fact that women have ovaries, ample amounts of estrogen, a uterus and can grow a child, does not predetermine her affinity for pink and princesses.

Back then, I was looking, in fact, hungering for an explanation to help me understand the greater truths of the world – why there was war and violence, why there was corruption and power struggles, why money and consumerism reigned supreme, and why our society was hell-bent on destroying our ecosystems. Feminism became my answer, and my mantra, because it laid bare the elemental underpinnings of society; that the imbalance of power exists because our culturally, traditional masculine characteristics are far more valued and regarded than the traditional feminine qualities. This imbalance became my lens for understanding everything.

Fast forward 15 years and I have left much of my feminist rhetoric behind. But I still hold some strong convictions from this time in my life. I still generally hold the belief that the world is in a bad state because there is an imbalance of power and that men are overwhelmingly the decision-makers, the rule-makers, and the harbingers of justice. But not a whole lot else remains of my former ideals, living, as I do, in my comfortable home in an affluent neighbourhood of Vancouver, where conversations tend to focus on house renovations, trips to Hawaii, private versus public school debates and the ‘slippery’ slope of allowing halfway houses into our well-heeled enclave.

At a recent playdate for my son, the other mother discreetly queried me about boy behavior. She expressed concern that her own three-year-old son tackled everybody he saw. “I know he’s a boy, but I can’t stand watching it. I want to tell him not to do it at all. But I just might need to accept it.” I hear my own son saying he learns about jail and guns and killing from the big boys at his preschool. I ask my son if I like those words and he shakes his head ‘no’ with a big mischevious grin on his face. It’s a losing battle.Why should a 3-year-old know about jails and guns? Why is it even a possibility? These are the questions that make me mad – that we live in a society where this is part of its lore.

Take my seemingly petty struggle with my five-year-old over her Hallowe’en costume. “Mommy, I want to be a princess,” she says.
“Ok.” I say “But there are many other things you can be as well. What about a cat, a ladybug, a pirate, a butterfly, a frog?”
“No, Mommy. I want to be a princess. All the girls are going to be princesses. Please, Mommy, please.”
“We’ll see,” I deflect. “Hallowe’en is still some time away.”

She’s on the princess thing for a good 2 weeks and my continual redirecting of her idea feels like a broken record.
“Mommy, when can we make my princess costume?”
A voice in my head says “Can’t you just say yes? Can’t you just let her be what she wants?” But she’s only five and she wants to be a princess because all of her friends are, because girls ‘should’ be princesses, because every store window - from the boutique toy shops to Zellers to Toys ‘R’ Us - tells her that she should be a princess.

“Not now,” I say, “We don’t have the fabric for a princess costume. ” I see grave disappointment.

Then suddenly, a few days before Hallowe’en, she changes her mind. “I want to be a good witch with a wand and a hat covered with stars and moons.”

I’m all over this one. My instant encouragement and praise are transparent and embarrassing for even me to listen to. “Excellent idea! Let’s get started right away.” We spend many happy hours discussing and creating: what we’ll make her cape out of and how we can cut stars out of black felt and glue them on a piece of purple velvet. She is engaged and happy, her face excited. I am relieved we’re not talking about princesses and that our focus is on something more complex in its meaning, the witch, a symbol of female power and magic. Of course, this definition is more for me than my daughter.

My daughter may very well have changed her mind on her own accord, or perhaps she changed her mind to get my approval. Is this small manipulation something I can defend? My inner voice cautions this will only garner anti-princess rebellion come adolesence. But another voice says that these small stances do matter and on this one, I proclaim success.

This decision of mine to relentlessly fight against gender stereotype is set in my bones, even if I drown more often than I swim. The Digger Land and Princess Land – I fight it so hard because I fight myself, for how much I’ve allowed the status quo to take over. It’s not petty, and despite my own contradictions, it is about something. It has to be. I see my children as a microcosm of the larger world, and it is my responsibility and my imperative to teach them wisely, authentically, and honestly. But oh, how complicated and difficult this is to do.

Laurie Davidson is a mother, writer and librarian. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia with her partner and 2 children.

Right now, the heaviest thing I’m carrying is a looming dread of fulfilling the family curse. This particular curse has been passed down for generations on my mother’s side for as far back as the women in our family can remember.

I knew my grandmother only after the curse had done its damage. As a teen, I watched my mother battle and finally succumb. The stories she told about herself – all from a time before – may have stirred warm, sentimental feelings for her. But for me and my sister, her stories only served as a warning.

So I watch myself closely. Changes – especially physical ones – evoke alarm and I wonder, “Is this how it starts?” Honestly, I don’t really know at what point the curse begins, or what its indicators may be. I only know that when the curse takes hold, every woman in my family is overpowered and when she finally gives in, she follows the same fate as every woman before her: she becomes her mother.

In my family, when a woman reaches the age of 35 or has two kids (whichever comes first), she gains 100 pounds and grows a mustache. We joke about how this is the unfortunate result of our Eastern European genes. We laugh about the suddenness and inevitability of it all. But the thing no one mentions, but that I have always known, is that this is the moment when she stops caring.

She is no longer part of the present, but lives in the world of before. She stops doing things. She goes out less and less – eventually only to places she knows, like to church and the mall. Dreams, ambitions and interests are reduced to stories meant to reveal why they weren’t worth the trouble, or why they could never happen for her.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It starts as exhaustion, or a general sense of being overwhelmed, and eventually, previously held interests wither and decay like last season’s garden until no one remembers these women as anyone other than what they are – the mother, the grandmother, the bitter old woman.

To make her seem less threatening in this state, I have purposely reduced my mother to a two-dimensional character. After all, this is what she has done to herself – flattened out. Even after the kids left and she had time, she wouldn’t get a job – too scary. Or go back to school – too old. Or even travel – what if? She refused to stretch herself in any way. But she would sigh a lot and complain and talk about how the world was going to hell or go on and on about small slights turned into large offenses.

At first I would listen, terrified, dismayed. Years later, she still tells the same stories, but I’ve long since stopped listening – it is simply too boring, too depressing, and now too threatening.

I have carried a fear of the curse ever since my high school graduation when my grandmother waddled over and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. With the tone of someone imparting great wisdom, she said, “I was as pretty as you when I was 18.” I remember watching her join my family at the table thinking, “Never. Never. Never.”

In my twenties, when I don’t think I was seriously worried, I used to examine myself in the mirror, looking for features that resembled my mother’s — but my ass was still firm then, my upper lip still hairless. I thought I might be exempt. Physically, I take after my father’s side – smaller bones, taller. But because my mother and I are so similar in other ways, I made sure I did everything to prevent becoming like her. I avoided ruts, moved often, travelled frequently, changed jobs just when my learning curve began to plateau. I dated outside my type. I lived outside my comfort zone, thinking perhaps it was really comfort and stability that somehow invited the curse in.

But then I got pregnant and now a year and a half later, I’m pregnant again. Comfort and stability are my new goals. I’m also well over 35 and trying not to freak out as, six months into this pregnancy, my waist is long gone and I no longer have energy or desire for exercise, or as my mask of pregnancy darkens into the shape of – yes, you guessed it — a full, dark mustache. Oh, I know about baby boot camp and yoga. I know I can diet if I want.

But what scares me is this: for the first time in my life, I can see how easy it was for my mother to lose herself – first from necessity because a woman has to let herself go a little to cope with infants and small children, then because it requires so much energy to find or recreate a self. I can see now, for the first time, how it is possible for a life once richly lived to shrink into the shape of a well-worn path from home to the mall and back again.

Writing Start: Becoming My Mother

I was daydreaming, pushing the pram and only half listening to what my four-year-old was telling me. We were holding hands, enjoying the sun. As we waited on the corner of the busy intersection, I thought to myself: “Is it wrong that I bought my son a Venus flytrap? Is it okay to feed it wood bugs, as they are the most plentiful in our garden? What message am I send..” when KABLAM! I heard the noise before I registered what I was seeing.

I gripped Evan’s hand and threw my other hand over the baby’s eyes. Please, I thought, please spare their eyes. The debris flew at us in slow motion, as if I was in a video game and the world was exploding before me. A car had blatantly run a red light, and a left turner was going on his green one. The busy corner stopped. All was silent for about three seconds, and then the world was moving again, the two cars moving off to one side to exchange information. The man who had his car hit jumped out of his van. “Where’s the fire?” he bellowed. He was angry, but seemed more incredulous than mad.

I stooped down to examine the now wailing baby. First I was gripping her face, and then a loud banging noise interrupted her day. She had no idea what was happening, and then there was her mother. I was in tears, shaking, checking over both kids repeatedly. “Wow Mom! That was scary!” my son relayed. I hug him and say yes, yes it was, and I try not to show my overwhelming fear that I could not protect him in that flash of a second. I held his hand, and pleaded to whatever power there is. That was it. It was not in my control.

My brother tells me that bad things happen quickly. This is always true, but just a pat saying until time stands still one day on your way to the library. I stood on that corner for many walk lights, unable to move. I stared at people walking by. Several stopped to see if we were okay. It was obvious to them all that we had dodged a bullet and that I was in some sort of numb shock. My eyes scanned the pavement and the sidewalk around me, awash in a sea of plastic and metal debris. A large hunk of one light and its plastic casing lay at the foot of the pram. It was the size of my daughter’s head. Somehow, nothing had touched us, and yet, there we were, surrounded by twisted man-made materials.

I waffle on the presence of a higher power, kick the thought around in my brain like rusty can that I see in the gutter on my way home, everyday. I want the can to be full. I want to pick it up and drink from it, be satiated and secure. But this can is always empty, except for all my questions. These questions revolve around dogma and practice, rather than spirituality, and I can’t reconcile them.

There is one thing I believe and will always believe. I am blessed. I have a guardian angel, and it has saved me more than once. I have felt its presence so strongly that once, on the edge of despair and wanting to leave this world, I felt its arms around me, warming me in a cold room. Immediately, I was calmed. I stopped crying. I was loved, intensely. I was told it would all be all right, in an unheard voice, in a feeling that crossed my heart.

I will continue to try and find my way through the spiritual minefield that is life. I don’t know what to tell my kids, and I worry about it. But I will tell them about angels, who do exist. Of that, I am sure.

Writing Start:Angels

M son Ben, at four-years-old, with marble-blue eyes and blond hair, possessed an extraordinary spirit and wit. One summer day, we set out to explore the neighborhood despite the high humidity and record-breaking temperature. Ben had his mind set on his quest for the day. He insisted on wearing two layers – jeans and a T-shirt, and a polyester suit paired with rubber boots.

We started out toward the park, but the heat soon took its toll. Ben complained about his layered outfit and removed the polyester suit. A stop at the convenience store was in order where we bought a giant Slushy and headed home. While Ben sat perched regally on his bike seat sipping our Slushy, feet up on the bike frame, I trudged along in the heat pushing him and his bike.

We stopped to collect our mail. Ben studied a poster about a lost cat while I stared at a large envelope featuring my own self-addressed return label. In a burst of energy, I raced us home.

Finally inside, with Ben comfortably resting in front of the television, I opened my large envelope.

After a few moments, he asked, “Mommy, why are you sad?”

“Oh, I just need a minute, honey.” I pinched the bridge of my nose hard to stop tears from flowing. It didn’t work. “That magazine thingy I wrote got rejected.” Ben stared back blankly, so I added, “Yep, they didn’t want it.”

“I want it!”

“Oh thanks, buddy.”

“Mommy, gimme the other mail, please. I need it.”

I handed him three envelopes. Ben picked up his red crayon and opened the first one - a tax bill. Across it he scribbled, and declared aloud, “Rejected,” tossing it over his head like rubbish. Next, his father’s cell phone bill for work - “Rejected! We have no use for this.” Finally, Ben doodled creatively on the third - a credit invoice. “The cat must be found. Not one more night without him!”

My son’s compassion overwhelmed me. I pledged to never underestimate the wisdom of my polyester-clad, foam-muscled super-hero, whether he was in costume, or not.

(This piece was previously published in Zamoof! Magazine, www.zamoofmag.com. I thought I should publish it because all of you writer/moms reading this would be able to relate and appreciate her story.)

Writing Start: Hero

The house is quiet. Unbelievably, the house is quiet.

I have soup stock boiling on the stove and the kitchen fan hums above it. Our ancient dog is snoring and his paws brush the hardwood as he races like a puppy in his sleep. The dishwasher is running. But the kids. Are. Asleep.

This won’t last long. My five-month-old will stir at the rumblings of his little tummy, and I may end up writing some part of this as I nurse him. My beautiful little guy.

For now, though, the house is quiet, and this page is my oyster. I have savoured the thought of putting pen to paper all day, as I changed another diaper, blotted the bloody lip and teary eyes of my two-year-old monkey of a son, spooned the baby’s first serving of real food into his welcoming mouth.

My days are so dominated by my family’s needs right now that I can barely see straight. I realized as we headed out the door for play time this afternoon that I hadn’t actually looked in a mirror once today. I am, as they say, “in it.” I don’t resent “it,” but “it” does take “its” toll. I am tired. I want more for myself. I want more of myself.

As someone who has always had strong beliefs about the proper guidance of children, I can get a bit heated – sure, maybe even downright preachy – if asked to discuss the responsibilities of parenthood. I do think, though, that we owe it to those around us to do what it takes to be happy. That could mean demanding that our partner watch the kids after they’ve had a long day themselves so that we can take a bath. It could mean we use nap time to do the workout we are sooo not into doing, because we want to wear our pre-pregnancy jeans again.

I don’t have a lot of patience for those women who blab on and on, proudly talking about the sacrifices they make for others and how little they do for themselves. They are doing everyone a disservice. When we deny ourselves these little rituals of self care and respect, we are teaching our children to do the same. We carry resentment as a result. Do our kids really need to take that on?

Still, I understand how a woman can get to that run-down place. It’s a precarious climb back to ourselves, after we’ve created and spawned forth these whole, new little people. It’s something that truly knocks us over, no matter how “ready” we think we are. It’s a beginning we didn’t know how to expect; the start of something we couldn’t possibly really plan for.

Sure, the crib has been assembled. Booties are all in a row. But do you have your seat-belt on?

I’m on this ride and I can’t get off. I wouldn’t if I could. Still, the challenge now is this: how do I begin to process and pull myself – I mean, my self – out of something that is going by so fast?

The house is quiet. The kids. Are. Asleep.
The page is my oyster.
I begin.

The online course, beginning in January, closely resembles the in-person classes. We’ll be getting together, on Skype, once every two weeks for an hour or two to discuss the readings, your writing and the writing of others. That will give you two weeks to complete each new writing assignment, as well as the readings. Over the three month session, we will cover the essential elements of writing a momoir, and you will develop your own personal essay, as well as shorter pieces that will be assigned just prior to our online class time. As well, you will learn how to publish your finished work in publications, both in print and online, and how to pitch your stories and ideas to agents and publishers.

Starts Wednesday, January 20
Runs every other week for six sessions.
Online discussion forum begins at 6:00 pm Pacific for about one hour.
Cost: $430 (including all taxes and materials)

Class size is limited to 8.
Prerequisite: a Skype address

(please go to www.skype.com to register)

Instructor: Cori Howard

Click here to register and pay

ONLINE CLASSES ARE ALSO NOW AVAILABLE THROUGH UBC, THE
UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA:
AW 613 W10A: Feb 1-Mar 26. $425.
To register, and for more information, please go here:
http://www.writingcentre.ubc.ca/personal/grouping3.html#MotherOnline

VANCOUVER WINTER CLASSES:

Tuesday evenings, 7 - 9 pm, ever other week, for six sessions
First class begins Tuesday, January 19
Classes at Higher Grounds Cafe
at the corner of Broadway and Vine
Cost: $420 (including reading package and all taxes)

Instructor: Cori Howard

Click here to register and pay

ONLINE COURSE AT UBC
For mothers who don’t have time to attend a class on campus
or live farther away, Writing on Motherhood is now available as an online
writing course at UBC in the winter term.
AW 613 W10A: Feb 1-Mar 26. $425.
To register, and for more information:
http://www.writingcentre.ubc.ca/personal/grouping3.html#MotherOnline

TORONTO WINTER CLASSES:

Wednesday evenings
Starting January 20
Location: Midtown (exact details to be announced soon!)
Session is weekly, held every Wednesday evening for six weeks
Cost: $420 (including reading package and all taxes)

Instructor: Randi Chapnik Myers

Click here to register and pay

WASHINGTON FALL CLASSES:

Classes begin Thursday, October 8 from 7:15-9:15 pm
Every other week for six sessions
Dates will be: 10/8, 10/22, 11/5, 11/19, 12/3 and 12/10*
Location: Circle Yoga, 3838 Northampton Street NW
Washington, DC 20015
Cost: $375 US (includes reading package)

Instructor: Jessica Stockton Clancy

Click here to register and pay

Please email Jessica for more information.

VICTORIA CLASSES:

Classes begin Thursday, January 14
Every other week for six sessions
Location: Cornerstone Cafe, in Fernwood
Time: 7:00 to 9:00 pm
Cost: $420 (including reading package and all taxes)
Instructor: Sue Fast

Click here to register and pay

SEATTLE CLASSES:

Classes begin in January
Exact Dates TBA
Every other week for six sessions
Location: 7707 17th Ave NW, Seattle, WA 98117
in the Ballard neighborhood
Time: 7 to 9 pm
Cost: $375 US (including reading package and all taxes
Instructor: Corbin Lewars

Click here to register and pay

It’s a brilliant fall afternoon, and I’m sitting on a bench in the playground of my children’s school, head tilted to the sun, enjoying the rays. My daughter is over in the trees climbing with the boys and as I turn to watch her, a mother comes over and stands beside me.

“How are you enjoying having Jaza in full-day school?” she asks.
“It’s great, actually,” I reply. “I thought I would feel sad and empty, but after the first few minutes, it felt quite liberating.”
“I don’t know what to do with all my time,” says the other mother. “Yesterday, I woke up and wasn’t sure what to do. So I read my People magazine. And when I was done, it was only 10 o’clock. I didn’t want to go shopping, just to pretend I needed to buy something for someone. I have lots of projects I want to do around the house, but I can’t seem to get started on any of them.”

In the few minutes it takes for this other mother to share her story, I go from judgment to anger to disbelief. I nod in an attempt at sympathy. But really, I don’t understand.

I’ve spent the last 8 years of motherhood in a whirlwind of non-stop activity. I don’t know if I would know how to slow down now, if I tried. I’ve spent 8 years struggling to balance work with kids and husband and housekeeping, and I know it will never end. At least until they’re 18. I’ve reconciled myself to the struggle being part of my life, to the reality that as my children grow, the struggle will transform, will entail different challenges.

My children are now in school and taken care of from 8:30 to 2:30. I thought it would be plenty of time to work, fit in some exercise, have a more balanced life. Not so far. I have filled it, by necessity, with work. After so many years of sacrificing money for time, my career for being with my kids, I am trying to make up for it now. If I don’t spend every second pursuing writing contracts, I can’t relax, knowing I’m wasting this precious “free time.”

The days fly by. I sit down at my computer at 8:30 and when I look up, it’s already 2–time to pick up my daughter. I look around at the other moms in the playground, many still in their fitness outfits, discussing their workout regimes and their kids’ extracurricular activities. I overhear another mom talking about how hard it is to manage her three different children and their after-school programs.

“So I called my house and my second nanny answered,” she says. “I told her to find my Joy of Cooking cookbook and make waffle batter for tomorrow morning.”
Scintillating stuff.
I turn my head back to the sun.
I watch as what appears to be a nanny walk up to her and listen to the woman instruct her: “Can you go home now, and I’ll drop Matthew and David off in half an hour? Then I’ll be back at 6 for a few minutes before I need to leave again. Please make them something healthy for dinner.”

I shake my head at this world I inhabit, a world so different than the one I expected and anticipated for myself. I shake the judgments out of my head. I force myself to remember every woman has a story. Every woman has a struggle. Whether we’re just trying to pay the bills, or juggle two nannies.

The life I imagined for myself as a mother involved traveling around the world, babes in backpacks, writing stories about global politics and social justice. I imagined living in different countries, my children at school with other kids of different races and cultures and religions. I imagined late night parties with the babes sleeping (ha!), nights lit up by passionate discussions and jam sessions amongst artists and musicians. I imagined a much more bohemian life. I couldn’t have imagined this: sitting in the sun in a tony, westside Vancouver neighborhood, listening to bored housewives with two nannies. I have strayed far from my truth, and yet, I am home.

I watch the world go by, look and listen for clues that might help me understand myself. Wish me luck. I don’t think I’ll find them here. But you never know.

Writing Start: Judgment