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Rose

Dear Diary,

I did it. I applied to all the PhD programs on my list. I finished the forms at the library and let Nicole put them in the mailbox outside the post office. She was giddy at the responsibility, and I was giddy for all my own reasons.

I play this mental game:

If I didn’t have Nicole, and I got into one of the programs, would I leave Rob?

Maybe.

Divorce isn’t as taboo as it once was.

Fact: By 1889, the United States had the highest divorce rate in the world.

I do have Nicole, though.

A list of things she has needed from me today:

Help getting out of bed in the morning (she could do it herself, but claims she is too scared)

Help taking off her overnight diaper and pajamas

Help putting on her clothes, socks, and shoes

Hairdressing services

Breakfast

Breakfast #2 (after the first attempt was rejected)

Help wiping her butt after going potty

Help pulling up her underwear

Help finding the crayons

Help cleaning up the crayons upon dropping the box

Help wiping the tears shed over the aforementioned incident

Help wiping boogers (lots of wiping in motherhood)

A hug and kiss on the cheek

A playmate to tend to the baby dolls and “feed” them pretend milk from plastic bottles

A snack

Another snack

Comfort after falling on her tricycle

A Band-Aid for her injured knee that is not really injured

Help clipping back hair that fell into her face

A cup of apple juice

Accompaniment on the potty (said she was scared)

Lunch

Expression of funny faces for several minutes to elicit laughter

Fifteen minutes of pre-nap lullaby singing

And we are just at the midway point of the day.

She gets to have so many needs.

I get to have none.

Mothers are expected to sacrifice all, and do so calmly and contentedly.

Adrienne Rich in Of Woman Born : “What kind of love is this, which means always to be for others, never for ourselves?”

Maria McIntosh, describing the ideal wife and mother in 1850: “She must learn to control herself, to subdue her own passions; she must set her children an example of meekness and equanimity ... Never let her manifest irritated feeling, or give utterance to an angry expression.”

Sometimes I wonder this terrible thing: Do I regret motherhood?

I love Nicole, I do. But it appears impossible for both my love for her and my love for myself to coexist.

One must go.

I do not regret Nicole. But yes, I regret motherhood. These are different things.

Motherhood, like marriage, has become an institution of female subjugation. Its demands require women to abandon all else, to give all to the children, with nothing left for themselves or the outside world (which is just fine with the patriarchy, of course).

Motherhood didn’t used to come with such demands. They are by design.

It’s no surprise that in the 1920s, just as women were cropping their hair short and exercising their newly won right to vote, researchers were urging mothers to return home and pay attention to the emerging field of child development.

It’s funny—women are told that they are biologically wired to mother, that they are naturally capable in a way men never could be (which seems like a compliment, but is really a designation of duty), yet they are also told that they need guidance, that they must constantly study ways to be better at their “natural” vocation.

Similarly, parent first gained popularity as a verb in 1970, right at the same time women were taking off their aprons, taking the pill, and fighting for equal rights. This new verb imposed on them a task, something that required their devoted action. They were called to parent .

With all the social pressure on mothering, it’s no wonder that mothers began to show signs of distress.

In 1957, E. E. LeMasters wrote “Parenthood as Crisis,” which states that 83 percent of new mothers and fathers in his study were in “severe” crisis. He chalked this up to being confined to the home without usual social outlets or time and space to pursue personal interests.

Another quote from Of Woman Born by Adrienne Rich: “My children cause me the most exquisite suffering of which I have any experience. It is the suffering of ambivalence: the murderous alternation between bitter resentment and raw-edged nerves, and blissful gratification and tenderness.”

The ambivalence is profound.

I fear if I get into one of the programs, I will resent Nicole for being the reason I cannot go.

What is better for Nicole? To know her mother pursued a dream? Or to know her mother gave up all to parent?

My own mother is the model of martyrdom. Many mothers are.

My own mother dropped out of college and married my father. She will never admit to any regret, but I wonder.

I thought I had transcended what she never did. I went to college. And here I am, a housewife, a stay-at-home mother, just as she was.

Would I be in this quandary if I had seen my mother pursue her own dreams, if that example had been set? Would I be married? Would I have Nicole?

It’s tempting to tell myself I will be doing Nicole a favor if I pursue my studies and my happiness. How easily I can twist things to my benefit! I may be what society says is the worst kind of a woman—a selfish one.

The purpose of applying is not to actually go. Of course, if I get in, I fear I will forget the original purpose. I will want to go. There will be no denying it.