Prolifically Raw: What Would You Do???

Monday, August 29, 2005

What Would You Do???

I am going to write a little story and I�d like you (that�s you the reader of this posting, yes, even the you who thinks�she doesn�t mean me.) to post a comment. Next week I�ll write the ending�.

I�m in 18A, window seat and my knees are jammed against the back of 17A. I�ve got my journal on my lap, my pencil in hand and am reading a Jungian dissertation of The Ugly Duckling in Women Who Run With the Wolves. I�m on the part about how the mother duck turns away from her ugly baby, giving in to social pressure and Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes: �When a woman has a collapsing mother construct with her in psyche and/or her culture, she is wobbly about her worth. She may feel that choices between fulfilling outer demands and the demands of her soul are life and death issues.�

18B & 18C hold two wide-bodied women. If I want to get out of my seat, say to pee or stretch, it�s going to take a lot of effort since they kind of ladies who take up a good share of real estate. Their bosoms are great loaves of bread and their bottoms are wide and well padded. The one closest to me is reading a book about Jesus. She�s on her way to Las Vegas with her friend, she says.

The doors close and over the PA system, the flight attendant says we are on an Airbus, blah blah blah, on time arrival, blah blah blah, tray tables up, blah blah blah. My watch says 5:30 am.

By far the most common kind of fragile mother is the unmothered mother, it says in my book.

In 17D, that�s across the aisle and up one, there�s a little girl in the lap of her mother. This child cannot be more than 18 months old and from what I can see of her is cherry blond hair that�s thin like angel dust and chubby legs with all that fine baby skin that you just ache to touch since you know it�s going to be so very soft.

Every new mother begins as a child-mother, it says in my book.

This baby isn�t really crying as much as she is whining.

�STOP IT!� says her mother.

A child mother is old enough to have babies and has good instincts n the right direction, but she needs the mothering of an older women or women who essentially prompt, encourage and support her, my book says.

�YOU LAY DOWN!� says her mother.

�YOU GO TO SLEEP!!� says her mother.

The baby whimpers but now it�s louder.

�STOP IT NOW,� says her mother. �I MEAN IT. YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW!�

I use caps here but they don't convey the tone of this mother's voice. Her voice brings to mind a mean dog on a short chain. Her voice is ice cracking down the center in the middle of the artic. Her voice is knives and daggers. It's her voice that gets my attention and I lift up in my seat, trying to get a better sight line to the person who belongs to such a voice. My view is the back of seats and the tops of peoples heads, bald, blonde, gray.

There is a louder cry and the sound of flesh meeting flesh. It could be a slap but like I said, I can�t really see.

The baby is really crying now and I sit back. Sure, I can be the judgemental one, I have no child on the plane with me. I am alone with my Christian posse and my own thoughts. It's easy to sit here and forget how I, more than once, have told one of my kids to knock it off in a voice that was pretty exhasperated. How quickly I can even forget the times I've delivered a swat to the bottom (although in my own defense, this move was rare. While I was raised with serious blows, I just couldn�t see the wisdom of striking my own children. It never worked to curb rebel behaviour and I just felt like a jerk later.)

�She�s mean Mommy,� says the woman in 18C. 18B is nodding in complete agreement and then goes back to her book.

The baby finally stops crying.

We�re at the runway now and the plane is picking up speed for take off. I�m pressed deep in my seat by the speed that we move and my stomach hurts. It feels like it�s being held in someone�s fist.

We are airbound, that light lifting feeling that must be something like death feels and I breathe deep and low.

I open my book again and look for where I left off.

The instinctual self always blesses and helps those who come after. It is this way among healthy creatures and among healthy humans. In this way, the child-mother is swept across the threshold in the circle of mothers, who welcome her with jokes, gifts and stories.

�YOU WILL STOP RIGHT NOW.�

That voice starts again and I have a sight line to the two of them.

The mother is wearing a black baseball cap and it�s pulled way low over her eyes and she has on a black tank top that�s about two sizes too small. Her tummy rolls out from the bottom of her top, tan flesh and there there�s some kind of advertisement around the side for Bud Light. She has headphones around her neck and I�m guessing she�s no more than twenty two.

Amazingly, the baby leans back and has the courage to make fists. She holds those up like she�s ready to fight.

�DON�T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT HITTING ME!�

The mother grabs those little fists and the child gives in quick, crying again.

�I AM THE MOTHER AND YOU ARE THE CHILD AND YOU WILL STOP IT.�

The seat belt sign is on and we leave the earth behind. Over there, the baby is crying in such a sad and soul broken way, I can�t help it, tears are down my throat and into my stomach where there is the kind of pain that can only be described as a black. I want to stop, I really do bu my mind turns around on how this mother is in public�what is she like in private? What kind of life has this child gone through? What kind of hell did this mother emerge from that makes this kind of behaviour acceptable?

�You have a good heart,� says the woman next to me but it's not true. What good is my heart? I'm stuck here, that child is over there and I'm crying? What's the good in that? What can I do? What should I do? What is the next move?