I'm really sorry if I come across as chauvinistic, and
possibly there are some exceptions to the rule, but all I can
say is: it seems to me that the difference between mothers
and fathers is that if a mother is sitting comfortably,
reading a book in the living room, and she imagines that she
just possibly might have heard a teensy- weensy cough from
her baby who is sleeping peacefully in his pretty yellow
nursery down the hall —
why, down the hall that mother will dash in a flash, arriving
in virtually no time at all,
just on the off-chance that an invading swarm of vicious
giant fuzzy, black-and-yellow striped bumblebees from
somewhere in South America, or wherever vicious giant fuzzy
black-and-yellow bumblebees come from, has been hiding there,
stealthily concealed behind a sweet, ruffly yellow curtain -
which may not be all that likely, but isn't it just as well
to make absolutely certain?
Or that a masked burglar has not somehow unobtrusively sawn
through the iron bars of the nursery window (on the seventh
floor).
Or that a panther, escaped unnoticed from the zoo of a nearby
city, does not even now lie crouched and waiting behind the
nursery door.
Or that Baby hasn't suddenly taken it into his head to
swallow his Giant Panda pink-and-blue teddy bear.
Or any number of other things that could be going on in
there.
Whereas a father probably wouldn't even hear that
teensy-weensy cough (unless maybe it was part of a non-stop
twenty-minute coughing spell that went on and on).
But, with blithe oblivion, would continue calmly finishing
his dinner or perusing his YATED NE'EMAN . . .
Because, no matter how sincerely he may subscribe to such
noble-sounding concepts as Equal Rights for Women and all
that kind of thing,
deep, deep inside, he really feels that for sure, it isn't
any job of his to take care of their `little darling.'
And while one, or indeed both, of them may believe that this
isn't how things should be, ideally, well, it's the way
things are.
So why pretend our lives, society or natures are otherwise,
or that we're existing on some other plane, some other
planet, some other star?
As to whether this difference I write of is genetic,
instinctive or culturally conditioned, on that subject I must
confess
That — fascinating as the ongoing debate on the topic
may be - I really cannot hazard a guess.
In any case, the point is clear: No one, but no one, is as
well equipped to care for kids as Mom is, so that her place
still remains basically within the home.
Still, only actual Parenthood can ever really persuade anyone
of that, I guess - and certainly, not a mere silly pome.
A Procrastinator's Song
[to be cut out, laminated, and posted on all refrigerators
— and if this is a repeat, so be it, so be it, so be
it]
You don't gotta wanna
You don't gotta like it
You don't gotta understand.
Just do it.
You don't gotta write about it
You don't gotta fight about it
You don't gotta be right about it.
Just do it.
You don't gotta shine, excel
You don't gotta meet success
You don't gotta do it better
You don't gotta do it best.
Just do it.
You don't gotta agonize about it
You don't gotta antagonize about it
You don't gotta worry about it
You don't gotta scurry about it
Don't be in a flurry about it.
Just do it.
You don't gotta list it
You don't gotta twist it
You don't gotta do a lot
You don't gotta work non-stop
But do it.
You don't gotta do it happily
You don't gotta feel great ecstacy
You don't gotta have lofty spirituality
Just do it.
No, it may not make much difference
Yes, it may be soon undone
No, your worth won't hang upon it
Yes, He'll love you anyhow
Still, you're here to choose, to act to do. Therefore
Just do it.
Still don't wanna? Still not gonna?
Ask for the willingness
You ARE gonna, but grumbling all the while?
Ask for the joy.
Do it, do it, do it.
Do it, do it, do it.
Do it, do it, do it.
NOW.
A Kiss for Mommy
A kiss for Mommy may be:
Stickly, tickly,
Slurpy, noisy,
Eggy, chocolatey,
Cottage cheesy . . .
It may be badly aimed:
Colliding with your nose,
Zapping you in the cheekbone,
Knocking your glasses off
Demolishing your new hairdo . . .
It may be ill-timed
At four A.M.,
Or just when you have no strength
Left to bend down and receive it,
Or when you're in a hurry to make lunch,
Trying to concentrate on writing a letter,
Threading a sharp needle.
A kiss for Mommy may be
All these things.
Still, there are times
When it hits the spot.
