In observance of Mother’s Day, I thought I’d share this as a tribute for the many mothers out there– those who are biologically mothers and those who lovingly contribute to the lives of young people by mentoring, comforting, teaching, nursing… i.e. mothering. Many thanks to BUST Magazine for publishing the initial version of this story in July of 2016. I have since edited and added to it for my collection, Burning Sage. Also thanks to my girlhood friend, Jen, for allowing me to share this little glimpse into her beautiful family. 

 

Becoming Jen

In the fall of 1994, I was a new mom, a new wife, and a faithful fanatic of the brand new sitcom, Friends. I looked forward to Thursday night TV all week. I had just turned 21, and after a full day of changing diapers, watching Barney, and reading Shakespeare, I would glue myself to my grandma’s hand-me-down console TV in our first apartment and pretend I was carefree again. I imagined myself, along with my own friends, living it up in Manhattan, drinking from oversized coffee cups, and popping in and out of each other’s apartments. I imagined being thin again, wearing cute clothes, and sitting next to my husband on the couch in Central Perk as we all contributed to the most trivial and inane conversations. I imagined being Rachel.

Rachel Green was incredibly cute and fairly flawed. She almost let societal expectations undermine her self-worth and forge a path which, for her, meant complacency. But she didn’t. She didn’t go through with a loveless marriage, and she decided instead to make it on her own. She cut up Daddy’s credit cards and went from barista to fashion buyer. With her adorable new haircut that took Gen X-ers by storm, Rachel became somewhat of an icon to young women. This isn’t to say she was a perfect role model. Her spoiled upbringing, episodic bouts of whining, and at times, air-headed nature could set anyone on edge. But she was also kind of real—a young woman questioning privilege, battling her own inflated ego, seeking a way to remain true to herself and true to her friends. Watching her was a fun escape and actually made me contemplate the person I did and did not want to be. Learning about Jennifer Aniston over the years, or Jen as I like to call her, was even more interesting. Her attitude toward aging, beauty, charity, heartbreak, and motherhood left me in awe. It became clear that it wasn’t Rachel I admired; it was Jen.

Jennifer Aniston wrote an article for The Huffington Post voicing her frustration over incessant pregnancy rumors. She states, “For the record, I am not pregnant. What I am is fed up.” Jen is 47. You would think there would be a point when people stop prodding her, when they start minding their own business. I know too well they won’t. I imagine when Jen is 65 and I am 61, when our eggs have long since dried up, our friends, families, and co-workers (a.k.a. Mr. and Mrs. Well-Meaning) will ask, “So, when are you having a baby?” Her experience is different than mine, obviously. First of all, she’s a celebrity and is under the microscope every day; additionally, she has never had a baby. On the other hand, I’ve had one child and, on many occasions, have been made to feel like a neglectful parent because of my son’s only-child-existence. What unites us is that we are both apparently unnatural. Both freaks in a world that loves labels, and traditions, and categories.

Once upon a time, there was another Jen. I went to middle school and high school with Jen Wylie—my goofy, lovely choir friend. Jen and I didn’t often socialize outside of school. She did have one crazy party sophomore year that our classmates still talk about to this day. It looked like a scene right out of Sixteen Candles. Beer covered her parents’ floors, tables ended up broken, beds were, good God, besmirched. So when she got pregnant shortly after graduating from high school, we were all quite surprised; it was still assumed she was grounded for the rest of her natural life.

Her baby girl was beautiful—the perfect combination of Jen’s sweet face and the face of her husband, Roman, the older football god we all had a crush on growing up. She seemed happy. It was all working out. And she conveyed this to me with a phone call after hearing that I was pregnant. Baby gurgles in the background, I sat on my kitchen floor, tracing the patterns in the tiles with my fingers, listening to Jen explain everything I was about to encounter and asking me questions I had only recently pondered. Was I taking prenatal vitamins? Did I see the doctor yet? Did I hear the heartbeat? Some questions took me to the world of adulthood that I still couldn’t face. Would I need WIC or medical assistance? Bottle or breastfeed? Natural childbirth or epidural anesthesia? My mind was in a whirl. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I listened to New Kids on the Block with this girl? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I borrowed her lip gloss in choir?

Shortly after I had my baby, Jen had another. And then another. And then seven more. And then two grandbabies before the age of 43. She exudes a magical, maternal force that is, quite honestly, enviable. Her Facebook posts scream of her art—nurturing her gorgeous family. It is her gift.

Mr. and Mrs. Well-Meaning have stalked Jen’s life too, only with different questions: How do you feed them? Are they all from the same marriage? How much does your husband make? Because, you see, this other Jen is a freak too. Just like me. Just like Jennifer Aniston.

But here is what Mr. and Mrs. Well-Meaning, with all of their questions and concerns, don’t know: They don’t know our lives. They don’t know which Jen lies awake at night scared about decisions of the past, scared about screwing up the present—scared about regret in the future. They don’t know which Jen prays to one day cradle her first tiny person, or yet another tiny person, of her very own. They don’t know which Jen lives in certainty, confident and proud of her life choices. They don’t know which Jen is infertile, and is in turn, stung by feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness every time there’s a comment. They don’t know which Jen’s ovaries burn every time she holds a baby or if each day crossed off the calendar is another reminder of a window that inches closed, just a little bit more. They don’t know which Jen has suffered painful loss, and therefore, holds a much different appreciation of new life. The “concerned men” don’t know what carrying a baby for nine months does to a person. How a little piece of your heart is taken from you, leaving you a helpless bystander to a part beautiful, part cruel world that you hope will be kind and fair, but you know is certain to incite pain. They don’t know which Jen swallows down the pangs of envy whenever her friends send beautiful holiday cards of fresh, toothless smiles. They don’t know which Jen rejoices each day, or which Jen cries each night. And, most of all, Mr. and Mrs. Well-Meaning, with all their vague, but let’s face it, snarky and intrusive intentions, obviously don’t know how to shut their mouths.

The funny thing about this life is, it’s supposed to be our own. We’re supposed to be able to decide what’s best for us, pay our bills, and be kind to people without bowing to societal expectations, whether that includes having ten kids or none. When I see Jennifer Aniston in commercials and new movies, exuding confidence with her Aveeno kissed skin, I feel like a proud little sister. I know it sounds ridiculous; she doesn’t even know I exist. But I like to imagine that when she holds the children at St. Jude Hospital, speaks passionately about her work with orphans in Tijuana, and advocates for LGTB youth, her heart matches my own. Maybe she feels the same way I feel when my only child shares good news with me, when I sense that he’s hurting, when my students come to me with problems, and when they return to me well after they graduate. Maybe she feels like my high school friend Jen when her oldest daughter walks in the door holding her grandbaby or when her youngest cuts his first tooth.

See, I know a little secret that Mr. and Mrs. Well-Meaning fail to recognize: maternal love has nothing to do with what they’ve been told and the expectations of family and friends. It reaches far beyond the baby-bumps, 2.5 kids, and white-picket fences. Their well-meaning questions only serve as a glaring spotlight into their own lives—their own insecurities.

 

Leaving Home, Finding Purpose

I’ve worked in education for almost 20 years, and while there have been times when I’ve wanted to pull my hair out and scour the want ads, those times are rare. Truth be told, with the exception of bureaucratic meddling, I love it all, and it’s well known. The short version of the story is that I was never supposed to be a teacher. I was supposed to be a writer and a professor, travelling from old decrepit building to old decrepit building discussing poetry, craft, and getting published. But circumstances changed. I had a baby and needed money. I decided to become an English teacher, and the rest, as they say, is history.  That choice brought me to different life—analyzing classical and contemporary writers, begrudgingly preparing students for standardized tests, conferencing over every kind of writing imaginable, and loving the hell out of my kids. And they are my kids. That’s well known too. I guess this is why everyone was shocked that I decided to take a sabbatical, or as it’s called today, a professional compensated leave, at the start of the winter break.

It was a difficult decision. I’m finishing my second Master’s degree—an MFA in Creative Writing. While my first Master’s in Literature wasn’t easy by any means, the process itself was easier. I was young. I could pull an all-nighter writing a 20-page research paper and still get up to teach 125 teenagers, break up fights, and dry the tears of college rejections. But that was years ago, and this older body refuses to let me do that anymore. Plus, creative writing is different. I get in my own way, constantly second-guessing myself—deleting and revising incessantly. It’s a real head trip. With my thesis approaching, a manuscript that will eventually become my first book, I knew something had to give. I had also been awarded a stipend to travel to Sicily for an International Writers’ Retreat. If I tried to do it all, I would either shortchange my kids or shortchange the opportunity I’ve wanted since I was a teenager. Without even knowing my upcoming students, I made my decision.

From the start of the school year, I threw myself into the Class of 2017 and for four months, I made the most of every second with them. I even selfishly rearranged the order of the curriculum to teach them the content I was most passionate about. The semester flew, but in the best of ways. I laughed with them through their Homecoming pep rally skits, guided them through one of our best Challenge Days yet, cheered them on at their games, comforted many hearts after the election, lent an ear when they confided in me about their crushes, and helped them find their voices through writing. I loved those four months. I love those kids. I think about them every blessed day, watching the clock, wondering how they are, wondering if they miss me even half as much as I miss them.

I’m very used to saying goodbye to my seniors. I do it every year, after all, and I’m always a little sentimental. But I wasn’t expecting how it would feel to be the one leaving them. Let’s face it—we’re all replaceable. I knew they would be fine with their new teacher, and I knew my amazing department would look after them. But would I be okay? Would I be able to handle a life without bells to tell me when to eat and when to pee—a life void of my musty, old classroom? It’s a life without my other family. Having moved around all of my life, that building is the only “permanent” home I know. As one of my graduates eloquently pointed out, it’s my constant: the veteran teachers are my parents; the English teachers, my siblings; the other department teachers, my cousins; the students, my kids. We squabble, discipline, guilt, and love each other the best we can. And leaving that, even just for nine months, is unsettling. By the time December 22^nd approached, the heart that has been broken so often at graduation, felt a different kind of breaking. I received warm gifts and beautiful notes from my kids with reminders to pursue my dream. That they would be okay. That they were proud of me. How tables turn. They were the ones teaching me.

One of my last goodbyes was Brian, the fifth child of a family I love—a family that has, in many ways, become my own. I’m invited to their holiday dinners, family vacations, and intense games of Skee Ball at Sea Isle arcades. We both looked forward to his senior year for so long, he even moved up to Advanced Placement to have me. “I’m so sorry I’m abandoning you, Brian,” I managed to say underneath the paper snowflakes and twinkle lights of my classroom’s winter wonderland. Our eyes welled. “You’re not,” he whispered. “You have to do this.” And I did. We all knew I did. He gave me a gorgeous watch that his mother and sisters helped him pick out as a Christmas present, a reminder, and as a goodbye. My time teaching that beautiful family was suddenly up. Just like that.

As I stepped out of the taxi in Ortigia in front of the Acropoli Bed and Breakfast, I looked to the stars and breathed in the cold, salt air. I didn’t know what awaited me in the next two weeks. I didn’t know that I would become closer to my friends Maggie and Maria and even find other kindred spirits among the writers there. I didn’t know I would fall in love with the female patron saints who watched over this little village, or that I would spend so much time questioning my own innate skepticism. I had no idea that I would become even closer with the program director I had known for over 12 years or that I would come to envy the faithful that made their way to church to pray each day. I embraced this lovely gift of time and place and all of its intricacies: I battled the water pressure in my cozy room at the inn, battled my heater when it didn’t work, and battled it when it worked too well; I shot down espresso standing at a café counter when I really wanted to curl up in a coffee house chair with a Starbucks’ Venti; I strengthened my thighs, squatting at every disgusting toilet I encountered and quickly realized that I should hoard toilet paper when the opportunity strikes; I learned that the snowstorm we combatted is a 25-year rarity and that a coach bus can descend an icy mountain backwards; I discovered that my broken Spanish is a nice commonality when English doesn’t work, and that the Ortegians love giving free drinks and compliments to blondes; I realized that I have gone my entire life underestimating the magic of the pistachio, and will now forever dream about pistachio pesto sauce over homemade tagliatelle; but most importantly, I learned that we all need to feel small in this world, and that smallness, that vulnerability, teaches us something. We all seek kindness and understanding, we all wish for the sun to break through the coldness of the clouds just a little more often, we all wish for hope in the face of fear, and we all miss the people we love.

I am lucky, incredibly lucky. I’ve been given a great gift—the opportunity to see what my life’s purpose really is in the absence of that very purpose. I know that there are colleagues back at school who roll their eyes and wonder how I could possibly be so sentimental when I get to take a break from the daily grind to travel and write. I was, after all, the one who signed up for this. I pulled the trigger even though I knew how hard it would be to leave my home and how much I would miss my kids. When I ran this idea past my principal, he cocked his eyebrow, as he’s known to do, smiled and said, of course you should do this. But we both know it’s going to be hard on you.

Yes, I’m a writer, a poet, and a dreamer, and this MFA is such a beautiful bonus to the education I’ve been privileged enough to receive. It’s a blessing to end it on the most gorgeous, mystical island in the world. But more importantly, I’m a teacher and a mother, two titles that took a long time for me to embrace. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. I love, I comfort, I hold on, I let go, I laugh a lot, I cry a lot, and I start all over again each year. This experience is a gift, but loving and helping others—that is the blessing of my life. That is purpose. And no amount of traditional education can teach you that.