An appeal from the author Why you should become a Salon member. By Anne Lamott

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T A B L E++T A L K

Single moms discuss the good, the bad and the ugly of raising kids solo in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

One mother's gain
By Maurine Zarlengo Christ
After adopting three children, a mom says it's love, not blood, that makes parents
(01/06/99)

My mother's daughter
By Kristina Zarlengo
A child of adoption wonders: How much is my nature a product of my nurturing?
(01/05/99)

The baby girl I gave away
By Ceil Malek
Putting up a baby for adoption was the first act of my adult life, but it took me almost 30 years to face what that decision meant for me and my daughter
(01/04/99)

Millennial family values
By Stephanie Coontz
The legislators who are piously "voting their conscience" have been consistently screwing the future for our children
(12/24/98)

The last waltz
By Anne Lamott
A dying woman calls her community together to thank it, to say goodbye -- and to dance
(12/23/98)

BROWSE THE WORD BY WORD ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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Salon Columnists

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SLEEPING IN | PAGE 1, 2
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But I'm so tired these days. I am still often awake in the middle of the night, agitated because I know I have to get up so early. The jungle drums beat and I flop around on the bed and read and pray, meditate and pray and read and flop around. When I come face to face with God in heaven someday, I am going to bow down and then I am going to shout, "What were you thinking?" In the meantime I'd like to point out that some of the world's worst people are some of the best sleepers: You show me someone like Tom DeLay, and I'll show you someone who falls asleep easily and then stays asleep all night -- and then is mean about it, passive-aggressive, sing-songy: "My head hits the pillow and I am out. Ha ha ha ha." As if this speaks of some deep, hard-won inner peace.

So. The other night I had a worse time than usual. I was channeling Edgar Allan Poe till 3:30, tortured and skittish, up every half hour for milk, or to pee, reading grimly in between. Finally, finally, I fell asleep, but when the alarm went off at 6:45, I felt like I had tsutsugamushi disease -- dreaded Japanese river fever. Sam came bounding into my room. I said, "Honey, I didn't get any sleep. I feel awful. Do you think you could make your own cocoa, put on the TV and I'll get up soon?"

And he said, "Oh, sure." He looked very pleased to be trusted. He knows how to make cocoa in the microwave, he knows where the whipped cream is kept. He's such a cool kid, and he's getting so grown-up: He knows his multiplication tables; he eats salad; he mousses his hair. So I drifted back to sleep. I heard the TV go on, and I called to him, "Did you get your cocoa?" And he said, "Yes, Mama. You just sleep. I'm fine."

I slept for half an hour or so and woke up at 7:15.

"How's it going?" I called.

"Just fine."

"Did you drink your cocoa?"

"Yes. You just take care of yourself, Mama." I thought, This is so great; Jimmy Carter lives at my house now. I also thought about getting up but didn't have it in me. So I said, "Could you get breakfast, too?"

"Sure," he said. "What should I get?"

I named a bunch of foods he likes and told him where they were. "And there are pears by the sink, all washed and ready to eat."

"Wow, great," he said. "Can I cut them with a knife?"

I thought this over and almost got up: You have to be careful with Sam, who loves sharp things. When he was 5, he tore inside one day, yelling, "Mama, Mama, do we have a chain saw?" But he's careful with knives now, and it seemed like incentive to get him to eat the pear, so I said, "Sure, a small knife."

"OK," he said. "A small knife. You can sleep a little more."

I have waited a long time for him to talk this way to me. Most of the time you'd think he was at a truck stop, where I've already introduced myself -- "Hi, I'm Annie. I'll be your mother today." When he says, "Do we have any string cheese?" it means, of course, go get me some. Sometimes I do, because I'm happy when he's hungry for healthy food. Sometimes I bristle, remembering Roseanne once saying that her husband and kids would always ask her if there were chips or sodas, as if her uterus were a tracking device. But: "You can sleep a little more."

I mean, I ask you.

I woke up again around 7:30 and felt like I might be able to get up soon. I didn't have to make him lunch, as it was Pizza Day, and it was another parent's day to drive. I called out, "How's it going in there?"

He said, "Just great."

"You are doing such a great job, Sam. I'm so proud of you. But could you do one more thing? Could you get yourself dressed? You know where everything is -- and I'll get up and help you get your shoes on."

"OK, Mama."

A minute later, I asked, "Did you find your shorts?"

"Yep."

This was just boggling my mind. He was out there acting like a real, high-functioning person, instead of like the pencil man who sits outside Macy's on his dolly. I fantasized about letting him get himself ready on mornings when I wasn't driving the car pool. I could sleep in two or three times a week, and, in the bargain, he'd be assuming more responsibility for his own care. The women or men in his future would thank me forever for not raising an entitled, wait-on-me guy.

I closed my eyes, then bolted awake at 7:50, 10 minutes before he gets picked up, and while tearing around my room looking for my pants, I suddenly stopped. Duh! Why was I tearing around like this? He had eaten, he was all dressed, it was Pizza Day.

So I smiled and went out to greet the day and my big grown-up son. Who was sitting on the couch wearing only his underpants and drinking a root beer.

"Hi, Mama," he said. "How you feeling?"

So in the 10 minutes left to get him fed and dressed, I tore around like the Roadrunner, flinging shorts and a shirt and socks his way, putting together breakfast he could eat on the ride to school -- a box of juice, the string cheese and pear I thought he'd already eaten. But then I started laughing, and he started laughing too, and we had a very sweet, very rushed few minutes together. He's just who he is; he won't be who I try to get him to be. And that's (sometimes) so great, and I (sometimes) love that so much. When he left, I crawled into his bed and pulled his blanket over me. It is flannel, a Southwestern design in rose, blue and dark green. He calls it his Moko Koko blanket and -- maybe he's not such a great big boy after all -- does not like to go to sleep without it. He says it helps you fall asleep, so I wrapped it all around me and took a little nap.
SALON | Jan. 7, 1999

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