In 1996 at age 38 I took a one year sabbatical from my position as school library media specialist at the Montpelier elementary school where both of my step children were students.
The reason I took the sabbatical was because I was pregnant. Once I had my baby boy I became enthralled with attachment parenting meaning that I did not use a stroller or a crib for the first few months. While he napped, I read through a stack of baby books supporting attachment parenting explaining how in other cultures babies were carried in slings, slept in their parents beds and did not cry. I clung to this idea and my baby seemed happy. He didn't cry unless he was hungry.
While I was bringing baby into the physical world, my mother was leaving with cancer that had metastasized and affected her brain making her childlike to the point where I was surprised when she called me as though she shouldn't yet know how to use the phone. She couldn't remember Baby's name even though my father had created a large reminder sign for her to see regularly. Yet, being driven over by my father to our house to see the baby was her favorite thing to do. When they were together, I could see there was a connection that perhaps came from their mutual closeness to the spirit world.
“He's really special,” she would say probably because she could relate to him more than others.
He smiled at her maybe for for the first time.
Because Mom enthusiastically encouraged me to be attached to the baby, I listened to her gentle suggestion that I try, when baby was a few months old, putting him down for a nap. He looked peaceful in his previously unused crib as though he was ready for a bit more independence.
Then, I had nothing to do because I didn't feel like cleaning and, because I slept with baby and learned to nurse in my sleep, I wasn't tired. We did have a computer within earshot of Baby's room so I sat down in front of the computer and eventually came up with the idea of writing a story about a post apocalyptic world of mostly orphans who did not venture out into the toxic environment. Their world was a protected womb of home, tunnels, trains and malls. I had written short stories in high school and college. As a school library media specialist I could use already written stories as springboards for story telling, so I guess it made sense that the computer called me during baby's nap and a few things floated up from the subconscious mind even though I had no idea at the time that the story may have had something to do with me losing my mother and protecting the new life that was my baby.
After dashing off a first draft, I gave the story to my sister pleading with her not to show the story to anyone else or even mention that I was writing anything. She lived near Goddard College rumored to have been a thriving alternative college in the 1960s and 1970s. At least one student during that time went on to become an artistic success in the form of world renowned playwright, writer and film director. He had a second home near my sister. Her family was friendly with his family plus she would tell me about other well known writers and actors with second homes near them probably as a result of having been a student at Goddard or knowing someone who had been a student at Goddard. She seemed comfortable with people with limitless possibility while I didn't like the idea of visiting her and accidentally running into any of these larger than life people with their country homes.
Baby continued to sleep for three to four hours every afternoon. The story, now at my sister's, got put on the back burner while my attention turned toward Thanksgiving. A gathering of seventeen would be at my parents house. Mom, who once loved to cook, could not cook anything. Dad was making the turkey and the rest of the family was bringing a dish. I read recipe books, planned and began cooking a couple of days in advance filling two casserole dishes with a mixture of homemade breads, homemade broth and sauteed vegetables. One casserole dish was devoured. The other one remained completely untouched until my sister picked it up announcing that she was going to a second Thanksgiving at the renowned playwrights second home in Vermont. She could bring my casserole. Relived, as if sending food naturally replaced meeting an uncomforably famous person who was married to one of the beautiful and talented actresses who appeared in his plays and movies, I said OK as long as she returned my glazed ceramic dish.
One cold day after the holiday, I bundled up Baby, put him in his his car seat and drove thirty minutes to my sister's house. I put sleeping baby in his seat down on the coffee table to unbundle him. We both looked at him sleeping like an angel. Then I saw the extreme rough draft of the story, that was not supposed to be shown to anyone else, on the coffee table with pages turned back as though someone started reading it but it was so bad they couldn't even finish the twenty or so double-spaced pages. My sister looked at me.
“I want to tell you something.”
“What.” I could hear the criticism even though my family had only been supportive. This time I was really rusty and she would be honest.
“Victor Tannen likes your stuff.” (Victor Tannen is the substitute name for the world renowned playwright)
“What?”
“He likes your stuff and wants to call you and tell you.”
“I'll be able to talk again in just a minute,” I said looking down at my feet ashamed and embarrassed about the story on the coffee table then remembering he said he liked it. What would I say if he called me.
Wanting to crawl into a hole because the story on the coffee table was in total rough form, a little angry at my sister for not keeping it a secret yet elated over the shining light of hope I caught my breath and said, “you showed him that story?”
By this time I had forgotten about the innocent being sleeping on the coffee table who needed his jacket taken off. I was accusingly staring at my sister with butterflies in my stomach knowing that a dream, way beyond expectations, might come true.
She looked back at me confused then with pity.
“Your stuffing. He really liked your stuffing and wanted to call you to tell you.”
She must have given Victor Tannen my phone number and I was worried about what I would say if he actually called me. I guess I could have said thank you for the compliment and offered to send my recipe for stuffing.
No comments:
Post a Comment