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Who's liberated?

 

Just back from school, my daughter saunters into the kitchen wearing cut-off jeans, silver nail polish, and hiking boots.

"Hey, Katie, how was the meeting?"

"Fine, Mom. Got something for you."

Backpack to the floor, she pulls out a piece of paper and hands it over. "You need to sign this for the Alaska trip."

It's a parent permission slip requesting emergency information, like so many I've signed, with spaces for father's and mother's work titles, addresses, and phone numbers. But this time I notice Katy's written housewife beside my name, and snap!

"Why didn't you put down writer," I react. "I've published two books and a hundred articles. What do you think I do all day while you're away?" I'm squeaking like a trapped mouse, lashing out and disclaiming what I really am to the kids, just plain mom.

"Sor-rey," she says, and the grin grows. My clue she did it on purpose to get a rise out of me. A baited trap and I jumped in. Katy goes off chuckling, while I madly chop vegetables.

I grew up in the early '60s when girls had to wear skirts to school, and boys wore pressed pants. Girls waited for boys to call them on the phone, and boys paid for their movies. I came home to a mother who was always there for me. She'd be sitting in that old easy chair with a cup of coffee, a book in her lap, and Beethoven in the background. I'd race in to tell her about the surprise math quiz, or my argument with Tim. She was a trusted confidante, and encouraged me to do more with my life than she had done with hers. But I thought she was perfect.

Today, that role model is out of style. Yet, in all my attempts to mold myself into a more fashionable example for my own children, I cannot. I have tried. When my kids were small I worked freelance, and then took on a bigger job at Apple Computer. Terrific, I thought, now I'm a first-class Super Mom. I worked early, late, and on Saturdays. The kids got extra treats and computer games from the office. They even got to ride in a limousine; but they didn't get time to relax at home.

"Quality time" was a popular sound bite in those days, and working mothers thought they didn't need to spend afternoons with their kids as long as they had special time together. So, half an hour of quality time is written into the working mom's schedule. But what happens, of course, is that half hour is not when my child chooses to connect. It takes hours, not minutes for a kid to feel comfortable enough to let go of feelings. Ultimately, I left the job and retreated again to freelance writing, so my over-daycared kids could hang out at home.

I'm thankful we can manage half the income, yet I wonder what kind of role model this presents for my '90s children. I want them to understand what it means to be a caring parent and a competent professional, and how to handle both successfully. And I want them to manage better than I have.

Today, women and men have the right to choose -- whether we want to have kids, go to work, fix the car, or whatever, as long as we share responsibilities amicably with those we live with. In our family, my husband's primary job is family finance and mine is raising kids. He'd rather balance the checkbook than wash the floor. I'd rather take kids to the dentist than wait for an emission check.

If we'd grown up in the liberated '70s, maybe I'd fix the plumbing and he'd stay home when the kids are sick. The point is, back when we grew up, we couldn't choose, and now we can. That makes all the difference.

I'm still cooking dinner when Katy comes waltzing back into the kitchen.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" This time, I set the trap.

"A psychologist," she answers without pause. "And a mom."

Hurrah, I'm thinking as I sign the permission slip. Forget the trap.

She grabs a pencil, writes something on the form, and then shows me the new title beside my name: Mother and Writer.

"Happy, Mom?" She grins.

I have a hunch she'll be more comfortable with her own double title, if she becomes a psychologist and a mother.

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