Vicarious Motherhood

Abstract

Rush around the house as soon as she arrives to elicit the image of being constantly in motion. Tidy things up, put the dishes in the washer. Wipe the kitchen counter. Chatter on about the same things: what rime he got up, what his mood is like. Discuss his bowels. Dig enthusiastically through your purse to make sure you "have everything." You are an epicenter. She, on the other hand, is a fuck-all English graduate with purple streaks in her hair who leaves Chekov and Joyce novels laying around; this is her leisurely reading. She is the type to tell everyone the truth and here you are in your power suit, coffee in one hand, fancy leather briefcase in the other, kissing your kid goodbye, and putting on your business smile. You are terrified of her.