Gilmore v. Gaia

I’ve always cherished this fantasy, a dream of creating a certain kind of household for my family. I envision a peaceful, nurturing, fun, supportive environment where my children can, above all, feel safe and cherished, cozy and coccooned against life’s hard knocks. I style myself, in this fantasy, as a borderline crunchy Earth Mother type, while simultaneously serving as the hip, wacky “cool mom” a la Lorelai Gilmore. I want the house at which all the neighborhood kids want to hang out; I want to be the mom that the kids confide in. I want to grow vegetables, and make my own skin care products.

And yet…reality bears little resemblance to fantasy.

Part of this is circumstance. I’m a single mom of twins. I was recently in graduate school, so I was simultaneously underemployed and overworked. We just moved and I’m not unpacked yet (and seeing as I’m currently unemployed, I really have no excuse for not finishing the unpacking, although I’m happy to blame the stress of job hunting). Many of my current conditions will eventually change.

Some things, of course, are not likely to change for the better (or, more precisely, not likely to change in ways that will enable me to make my vision a reality). I’m likely to remain a single mom, given that I’m pretty content as such and don’t have the energy or inclination to date and partner up. When I get a job, I will have less time to spend on the extras: the gardening, the face creams, the decorating. My free time (so called) will be spent on homework, laundry, grocery shopping, bill paying, and maintaining a minimal level of cleanliness.

And then, finally, there are certain aspects of my personality that don’t lend themselves to the fantasy I’ve woven. For one, I spend entirely too much time in my head to be an Earth Mother. What’s more, I’m a writer. More specifically, an essayist: a genre that demands more than the usual amount of navel-gazing, even from an inveterate navel-gazer like me. And I have never hosted a single play date at my house, apart from times I’ve invited a friend over who happens to have a daughter my daughters’ age. Part of this is due to the fact that twins generally don’t need other kids around; they make their own fun. Part of it is that we live in a community where people—while friendly—tend to keep to themselves. But part of this is that I’m an introvert who doesn’t really like inviting people I don’t know well into my home. And that’s not going to change.

While I’m failing miserably in the Earth Mother department, I do have some aspects of the Lorelai model down. I share my musical taste with the girls and they have always been far more likely to request Paramore or Elastica or the Beatles or Bob Marley than Elmo or the Wiggles. We do crank the ‘80s dance tunes or classic ‘60s R & B while house cleaning. While I am more of a disciplinarian and less of a BFF than Lorelai, part of that is due to the fact that my daughters are 7, not 16, and need a little more structure. (And, to be honest, they’re a bit more spirited than Rory. They’re also real kids, not TV characters.)

So what if I’m more Gilmore than Gaia? Can I live with that? Motherhood is a gig in which you’re set up to fail on a daily basis—and I never fail to fail. I yell more than I would like. The house is not orderly. I forget to put the homework or the field trip permission slip in the school folder. I cook far fewer meals from scratch, and the girls eat far fewer vegetables, than I find acceptable. But I have my moments. Like the impromptu personal hygiene lesson I conducted as I drove them to school this morning (sung more or less to the tune “If You’re Happy and You Know It”):

How do you wipe your bottom? Front to back!

How do you wipe your bottom? Front to back!

Well, you wipe it front to back ‘cause the other way is wack,

That's why you wipe your bottom front to back!

Yeah, I guess I can live with that.