You will be surprised to know that earlier this week, when I posted about my somewhat failed attempts at free, empowered, 21-st century womanhood, my original plan was to write about The Wizard of Oz. Don’t ask me what happened in my brain at that moment, because I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I know is I that was sitting with two wonderful women who have made choices comparable to mine – e.g. trying to reinvent a way of living and working that would be compatible with being available for their children after school. All three of us were working in the same room, after chatting over a cup of chai masala and sharing some chocolate-chip-and-hazelnut-spread cookies from The French Bastards bakery. If you haven’t tried this communal way of working yet, I highly recommend it. And maybe seeing us trying to figure out life as mothers and self-employed women, inspired me to write about that specific topic. Whatever the reason, as soon as I sat down, I forgot all about the wizard and found myself musing about the challenges – or should I say the impossibility? - of being a stay-at-home or work-from-home feminist mother.
But come to think of it, it makes perfect sense. Because the reason I meant to talk about The Wizard of Oz, was that it helped me survive some pretty hectic evenings when my husband was out of town a couple of weeks ago. He has had to travel quite regularly since we moved here. And it is undeniable that despite some advantages, such as the opportunity to serve my kids frozen food or easy pick-ups from the farmers’ market most nights, I have been finding those weeks of single motherhood increasingly challenging. I will pass on the acknowledgement that I make more of a culinary effort when “monsieur” is at home. As I said on Tuesday, my own personal road to domestic liberation is still long. For now, I just want to say that solo parenting is HARD, and that parents around the world who raise their kids entirely on their own, have my absolute and complete admiration and respect. There are the morning school runs, of course, when you need to do your make up while responding to the fifteenth call for more milk. And also the homework, or at least the most challenging aspects of it, which, in our house, are usually saved for dad. I, for one, am incapable of helping my children with their math assignments, past the third-grade level. What my son does in tenth grade looks insane to me, and I don’t know how he would survive it without his father by his side. This alone is worth many a chore card, in my book. And another life-saving thing I do not realize my husband does every day until he does not, is dealing with our boys’ evening story time.
When I find myself, the first night he is gone, sitting in their room on the lower bunk, looking for something to read that they both agree on, I could cry. Last time, however, he helped me without knowing it, by leaving behind the clothbound copy of The Wizard of Oz that he had started reading every night. My eight-year-old unearthed it from the back of his shelf, and for once he was really excited about sticking to the same story every day. Which meant I didn’t have to think for a second this time. His brother tucked the book in my hand and all I had to do was to pick up where they had left off. And I immediately found myself sucked into this story I loved so much as a little girl, when I saw the movie for the first time, probably in an old “cinema” from the fifth or sixth arrondissements in Paris, where my mom would drag me almost every weekend. As soon as I started reading, I remembered the vibrant colors, the ruby red shoes, the Wicked Witch of the West melting and leaving a puddle by her broom. And the awe I shared with the characters for the magic of Oz, until the very last minute.
As we read about the heartless Tin Woodman, and the brainless Scarecrow, I rediscovered parts of the story I had forgotten about. How, in fact, the Lion already has courage, and the Tin Woodman, a heart. My boys seemed to find much solace in this when I pointed it out to them. That life’s journey might not be so much about acquiring things we think we do not have, but about discovering that they were within us all along. Cheesy, I know. But what are books good for, if not for providing these kinds of moments. I guess with my increasingly phone-dependent life, I had forgotten about the power of a single book, for children and for grown-ups alike. And I was also just happy to be reading this book almost a year after we purchased it in a pretty Edinburgh bookstore, close to the famed “Harry Potter” street. It was one of those pretty books I stick on a shelf upon return, and promptly forget, because it is not quite comfortable enough to read for my kids, who prefer a good old paperback. We have a few like that, including a beautiful edition of Sleeping Beauty that my daughter never opened. But this Wizard of Oz is small and handy. And mostly it has the magic power of keeping two little boys perfectly quiet for a few precious minutes at bedtime. Something which, we can all agree, is a priceless in a mother’s life.
So here you go, get yourself a good old classic like that, and read it to your boys, or girls. It will make bedtime a special time, just when you might have given up on all hopes that it could ever be fun again.
And get yourself a cookie while you’re at it. I have found that old-school American cookies have become a thing in Paris. Which was indeed a welcome discovery. I mentioned The French Bastards, which just opened a new shop in my neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. An inspired move, which will make Saturday lunches so much easier. They have delicious sandwiches that husbands can be sent to pick up at a moment’s notice. That is what husbands do, in our house, on the weekends. Another thing that is dearly missed when not available to us anymore.
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