By Sophie Berghouse
I have been a mother much longer than a writer. My first child was born a decade and a half before my first essay publication.
When I was younger, I pictured doing the two simultaneously: the babies would nap for hours, and I would effortlessly work on my (obviously best-selling) memoir. Reality, it turns out, wanted nothing to do with my dreams; I found parenting to be so intense and time-consuming, the only writing I eked out were grocery lists.
Fast forward fifteen years. As the tasks of motherhood ebbed, my long-quieted dream of writing started rousing in the cob-webbed corners of my brain. I had always thought of the two—parenting and creative writing— as distinct careers, two separate chapters of my life’s book. Other than the intense time component, I never saw a common denominator.
Last night, my teenage son accused my equally-teenage daughter of being wasteful as she refused to eat the watermelon all the way to the rind.
“You only ate, like, half the red. Eat it to the white part,” my son said, the accusation swollen with emotion. It was as if we were witnessing the crescendo moment of a juried murder trial. It was her. She- (eyes narrowing, finger pointed accusingly) didn’t- eat- the- watermelon- to- the- …dramatic pause… end.”
Newton famously claimed that every force exerts an equal and opposite return. It turns out, teenagers are also subject to these same laws of physics.
“And YOU,” my daughter replied standing up to gain authority, her chair toppling behind her. “You- never- eat- the- pizza crust. EVER,” her tone equally menacing.
I had to intervene before we had a crime of passion in our dining room. Yet, I felt a familiar dread. How would I find the right words, something authoritative but non-judgmental? Both were equally right. And equally wrong.
In another era, I would have launched directly into words. I would have grasped at each thought that ricocheted through my brain blurting them out in staccato, mostly incoherent segments. There would have been no structure to my thoughts, but rather a potpourri of ideas: “respect each other, I like eating pizza crust anyways, watch your language, stay cognizant of emotions.”
After stumbling around, I would inevitably land on, “Stop. I said STOP.” This usually worked for a good three seconds before they would re-launch into debate. Inevitably, I would exit in fury, stage right.
As the rind discussion intensified, I jumped in. “You keep talking past each other. This is escalating beyond your control. Your sister is upset because she was enjoying her dessert, and your tone and volume shocked her. Maybe try gently nudging instead of a sledgehammer approach next time. Also, let’s question whether pizza edges and fruit peels are worth our emotional energy.”
Did I just say all that? Did I make those coherent, pithy sentences? It was like I was reading from a well-thought out script, not off-the-cuff emotions. And it worked. They stepped back, grunted, and moved on.
I stood in awe of myself. Since when did I have accessible vocabulary and comprehensible arguments?
Parenting and writing do have a common denominator.
Sophie writes often about the intersection of motherhood and writing. Instead of working on her memoir of parenting a disabled child, she daydreams about having an illustrious writing career. Until then, you can find her, hair disheveled, clothes tattered, knee-deep in the trenches of parenting. Or on Substack ( https://substack.com/@sophieberghouse).
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I have been a mother much longer than a writer. My first child was born a decade and a half before my first essay publication.
When I was younger, I pictured doing the two simultaneously: the babies would nap for hours, and I would effortlessly work on my (obviously best-selling) memoir. Reality, it turns out, wanted nothing to do with my dreams; I found parenting to be so intense and time-consuming, the only writing I eked out were grocery lists.
Fast forward fifteen years. As the tasks of motherhood ebbed, my long-quieted dream of writing started rousing in the cob-webbed corners of my brain. I had always thought of the two—parenting and creative writing— as distinct careers, two separate chapters of my life’s book. Other than the intense time component, I never saw a common denominator.
Last night, my teenage son accused my equally-teenage daughter of being wasteful as she refused to eat the watermelon all the way to the rind.
“You only ate, like, half the red. Eat it to the white part,” my son said, the accusation swollen with emotion. It was as if we were witnessing the crescendo moment of a juried murder trial. It was her. She- (eyes narrowing, finger pointed accusingly) didn’t- eat- the- watermelon- to- the- …dramatic pause… end.”
Newton famously claimed that every force exerts an equal and opposite return. It turns out, teenagers are also subject to these same laws of physics.
“And YOU,” my daughter replied standing up to gain authority, her chair toppling behind her. “You- never- eat- the- pizza crust. EVER,” her tone equally menacing.
I had to intervene before we had a crime of passion in our dining room. Yet, I felt a familiar dread. How would I find the right words, something authoritative but non-judgmental? Both were equally right. And equally wrong.
In another era, I would have launched directly into words. I would have grasped at each thought that ricocheted through my brain blurting them out in staccato, mostly incoherent segments. There would have been no structure to my thoughts, but rather a potpourri of ideas: “respect each other, I like eating pizza crust anyways, watch your language, stay cognizant of emotions.”
After stumbling around, I would inevitably land on, “Stop. I said STOP.” This usually worked for a good three seconds before they would re-launch into debate. Inevitably, I would exit in fury, stage right.
As the rind discussion intensified, I jumped in. “You keep talking past each other. This is escalating beyond your control. Your sister is upset because she was enjoying her dessert, and your tone and volume shocked her. Maybe try gently nudging instead of a sledgehammer approach next time. Also, let’s question whether pizza edges and fruit peels are worth our emotional energy.”
Did I just say all that? Did I make those coherent, pithy sentences? It was like I was reading from a well-thought out script, not off-the-cuff emotions. And it worked. They stepped back, grunted, and moved on.
I stood in awe of myself. Since when did I have accessible vocabulary and comprehensible arguments?
Parenting and writing do have a common denominator.
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