I sometimes wish I had an ethnically trendy mother. If my mother were Chinese or Jewish or Italian, I could find books and blogs and support groups focused on how to cope with her eccentricities and overcome my resultant low self esteem or hide my ridiculously inflated ego (yes, I dated the only son of an Italian mother once). But what to do as the daughter of a second generation Hungarian-American (with a pinch of LIthuanian)? In my mother's own words, press on.
The blogosphere is awash in larger-than-life madre tales at present. Some of it began with a Wall Street Journal article excerpting Amy Chua's book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother". My friend Lisa Chiu responded with her experiences as a child of Taiwanese immigrant parents and how she and her husband parent their boys. Ayelet Waldman shared her take on Jewish mothering. I guess I've been feeling left out or underrepresented. So here's a go at mothering, Zuki-style.
Zuki is the pet name my father calls my mother. It's a play on her maiden name, heavily Hungarian. Her maiden name begins with Z but when pronounced correctly, sounds like it begins with a J. To permit my mother a measure of anonymity, we'll refer to her as Zuki here. (If you're a friend or have read my blog before, you're familiar with the cast of characters known as my family.)
So what was it like to be the firstborn of Zuki? My parents had strongly delineated traditional roles at home, though my mother often shouldered all roles, while my father traveled for work. We lived rurally and raised beef cattle as a hobby, which fortunately do not need to be milked, but unfortunately do need to be fed and watered and occasionally given birthing assistance in the middle of northeast winters.
Zuki would today be called a WAHM but back in the day she was a housewife or maybe a homemaker. She did (and still does) all the cleaning of a 4000 square foot home; all the laundry for 5 people (she had to teach me a few days before I left for college); all food shopping and meal preparation; all budgeting and financial transactions; all school-related tasks for 3 children (this was fabulous when forging excuse notes in high school - no one had ever seen my father's signature); all car-pooling and chauffeuring; all gift purchasing and party planning and holiday arranging. And it didn't stop there. We had over 30 acres to tend - some of it wooded, but much of it fields with fences that sometimes broke and yard that needed to be mowed and edged and raked and shoveled, depending on the season. In the 18 years I lived on the farm, my parents never hired any regular help. There would occasionally be a barter system with someone, but it is only now, with my father nearing 80 that my own brother is permitted to snowplow my parents' quarter mile long, 30% grade driveway.
So Zuki had a bit to do during the day. If she found herself bored, waiting until her three children came home would take care of that feeling. Three of us in 2 year intervals, each with wildly different personalities, none of us an "easy" child. (For a clue to this, my mother will tell you I was her easy one. Enough said.)
I've referred to my younger years as "the childhood of a thousand lessons." I was instructed in guitar, flute, piccolo, swimming, golf, softball, basketball, soccer, field hockey, track and field, ballet, jazz dancing, western horseback riding, acting, photography (thank g-d something stuck) and likely more I've forgotten. I was in a million groups and clubs from Brownies (following which there was a tragic betrayal that led me to renounce the Girl Sprouts - that's a story for another blog entry) to D&D to Current Issues to Mock Trial to Yearbook to Art Club. And more. I can't say that Zuki pressured me into any of these activities - I was and am at heart, a joiner. And I love to learn. Was there pressure to perform? Is there an American parent out there of any ethnicity, newly immigrated or a Mayflower descendant, that is going to shell out, financially and physically for their children to be this involved and not give a darn what the end result is? It was no different with Zuki. She expected strong results and generally, she got them. I liked to please, to be praised and rewarded.
Except of course when I didn't. I enjoyed my instrumental music lessons themselves but saw little point in practicing when I could master my assignments with an hour of work prior to each lesson. Zuki expected more, so I tape-recorded myself playing different songs and played the tape to simulate my practice sessions. Of course I heard about it when I was third chair flute (behind Sallie and Joanne, both of whom actually practiced) but it didn't really upset me.
Something my friend Lisa and I share is a language barrier with our mothers. In Lisa's case her mother's English versus Lisa's Taiwanese causes challenges in their relationship. Zuki and I don't have a common vocabulary either, despite the fact that we share English as our first language. Zuki is practical, I'm extravagant. Zuki is a girly girl, I'm more of a tomboy. Zuki is scheduled, I like schedules but won't maintain one to the exclusion of all else. Zuki loves babies, I love adolescents. Zuki requires comfort, I'll forego comfort for fun, for style, for thrill. Zuki is religious, I'm spiritual. Zuki is about duty, I'm about equality. Zuki is stoic, I'm emotional. Zuki hugs and kisses at the appropriate times and in the appropriate amounts. I would hug and kiss constantly if it wouldn't get me arrested. I could go on (and on). I love my mother and I know she loves me, but we are fairly alien to one another.
On one hand, my childhood was unquestionably privileged. We had a large home and with it came toys, pets, a pool, a pond, a toboggan with our own run. My father had a twin engine airplane and as a commercial airline pilot, he was able to take us on many incredible vacations. There was the previously aforementioned lessons and clubs, time spent with cousins and grandparents and other loving relatives. But when you and your parents aren't speaking the same language, there are challenges.
Zuki wanted "good" kids - obedient and well-mannered. She would point to families in church and our community and ask us why we weren't more like them. What was odd (and I think different from my fellow mother writers) is that I found her comparisons annoying because I generally couldn't stand the kids/families she was comparing us to and I had no interest in being anything like them. Whether it would have made my mother happy or not didn't enter into my equation.
Zuki was proud of being in the National Honor Society and excited for her children to join this organization with her. When the time came in high school, I refused to apply. A classmate who was anything but honorable had been inducted and my feeling was that if that girl was a member of NHS than the organization itself was a fraud. I wanted no part of the sham. Zuki was heartbroken.
Another communication breakdown happened when my sister wanted a leather jacket (motorcycle style with the zippers at the cuffs) in junior high. Zuki was refusing, as she had refused me for four consecutive years about getting my ears pierced; as she had refused to abandon double knit as a fabric for our school clothes when no one our age had worn it for years; as she refused to allow us to wear jeans to school, even in high school; as she refused to purchase anything not on sale; as she refused to hear how humiliating it was to never look like other girls and to hear from other girls that they noticed this.
But I digress. My sister wanted this jacket and was in tears over the fact that even for Christmas, Zuki was saying she wouldn't buy one. I remember the conversation vividly:
Zuki: "I don't understand why she wants to look like a thug or a Hells Angel. Does she want to do drugs?"
Me: "She wants to present an image of strength and toughness, to be able to use a piece of clothing to communicate that image. It has nothing to do with drugs, Mom."
I tried to get Zuki to remember wanting to put on the persona of someone else but she swore (and I believe her) that she didn't understand what I was talking about. Some people believe in spirits; in other universes populated by sentient beings; in love at first sight; in "just because"; in indulging oneself and others; in not caring about pet hair because the love of a pet is too grand to miss. Zuki is not one of those people; I am.
When Zuki first saw my tattoo, she said, "Why do you feel the need to mutilate your body?" And I said that we are all born with a body and aside from plastic surgery, we can only make minor adjustments to hair length and color, nail length and color, piercings and clothing and other adornments. A tattoo is a choice - a piece of art that you elect to affix permanently to your body. A way to alter what you've been given in a permanent way, marking it as your own. I thought it was a great answer and Zuki simply shook her head and said, "I'll never understand." She was right.
My family motto, as I've discussed before, is, "Press On." The concept behind the motto is that we don't dwell on our challenges but rather, acknowledge them briefly and continue to put one foot in front of the other. It's a generally good philosophy, developed by people who knew poverty and oppression and lack of education but like many immigrants, picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and persevered. My father spent his childhood in the Great Depression and I think a piece of that never leaves you. People saw things then that they shouldn't have seen; did things that they shouldn't have had to do and vowed that they would do whatever was necessary to see that they never repeated any of it.
The unfortunate part of pressing on is that there can be a fine line between not dwelling on your problems and bulldozing everything in your path. Your child complains of being ill and you know she's generally healthy so you press on and send her to school - and she has rheumatic fever. Your child doesn't complain so you press on and assume everything is fine when it isn't. Pressing on often doesn't leave space or time for processing feelings and thoughts. Sometimes pressing on is used as an excuse to not process feelings and thoughts.
How does all of this impact how I parent my daughter? Interestingly, I think I understand my daughter a bit too well. We are definitely cut from the same cloth. So much so that our differences take me by surprise. But I parent very differently than Zuki did. I play with Girlie - pretend with her and puzzle with her and play games and take photos with her and watch every manner of crazy children's movie with her. We hug and kiss and cuddle and talk constantly about our feelings and the world (today it was about the sun and the moon and why it doesn't hurt our eyes to look at the moon). She said today, "We've never gone on a space ship," in the same way I might have said to my mother, "We've never gone on a cruise ship." I had to explain that most people haven't been on a space ship, which led to a discussion of astronauts and my asking her if she wanted to be one. (The answer was no.)
I think it will be easier for me with Girlie than it was or is for Zuki with me. Even if we are not as similar as it appears now, I will fight molding her into my own image. Into any image. As I said to a friend recently - I can want a quiet, obedient, well-mannered, people-pleasing little girl that people will praise me for having and raising. And wanting that will eat at me a little bit, every day. Wanting that will put a little distance between Girlie and me, every day. And one day there will be nothing left of me and my Girlie will be nowhere to be found.
Or, I can give that up. Let go of that image of some girl I thought I wanted. That her teacher wanted at the last parent conference. That our neighbors must surely want when the air is warm and windows are open. That judgmental strangers at the park and mall want. I can let all of that go. And I can, to use my family's motto, press on in parenting the child I have - press on through tantrums and tears to hugs and heartfelt talks. Press on through anxiety behaviors to gifted swimming, through weak listening to beautiful drawing. Press on my heart the image of a small hand in my large one, of warm sweet breath on my ear, of "I love you more, Mommy."
Pressing on, here.
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