Benign neglect

Eddie's grandma was, in Mormon circles, a fairly famous poet and author. She published at least five volumes of poetry and wrote short stories and biographies, most notably the biography of Camilla Kimball, who was her older sister. She worked for most of her adult live as a creative writing teacher, retiring from Highland High School in Salt Lake City in the 1970s. She also visited every continent and filled all of her school vacations with trips to exotic, far-flung desitnations. On top of all that, she was the mother to eight children and was named Utah Mother of the Year. She was a funny, creative, classy lady, born into a polygamous family in the Mormon colonies in Mexico. By the time I met her, she was in her late eighties, and ironically, had lost her prodigious memory to Alzheimer's Disease. But I've always felt close to her. I know that if I had known her in her prime I would have wanted to be like her. We gave Annie her name, Caroline, as a middle name, and hope that she can grow up to be as spunky and smart as her namesake.

But Caroline wasn't perfect. In fact, I highly doubt that she would win any 21st-century "Mother of the Year" awards since she loudly preached the virtues of benign neglect in childrearing. She accomplished a lot in her life, and she was able to have time to write poems and books and teach school because she believed that kids did best when left to their own devices. I mean, she'd keep them safe and fed and clothed. She provided them with lots of love.

But she didn't smother, didn't enroll them in thousands of activities, didn't feel any special compulsion to keep the house spotless and germ-free. And sure, there were times when they probably could have used a little bit more guidance (like the time my father-in-law tried to cremate a dead cow on the farm). But no one can deny that her children turned out great-- all eight graduated from college; most recieved graduate degrees. It's a family full of college professors and doctors and teachers and lawyers. And all of them revere their mother's memory.

I've been thinking a lot about Grandma Caroline lately because I've been reading Levi S. Peterson's fantastic biography of Juanita Brooks, a Mormon historian who was born in the 1890s and lived her life in St. George. She was Grandma's contemporary and they were alike in many ways-- lived in Southern Utah at the same time, raised big families, taught school, and approached writing from the viewpoint of a believing Latter-day Saint. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that they knew each other. As I've been reading Brooks's biography, I've been astounded at how much she accomplished as a young mom. In one year, when she had four kids five and under and a whole house full of teenage boys, she wrote a book, several magazine articles, and had four or five other projects in the works. She kept house too-- keeping an ironing board in the kitchen so she could do her ironing when visitors came to call (therefore keeping visitor-free time available for writing). I just keep marveling at how she did it all and still raised her family.

I guess I'm intrigued because I feel so guilty whenever I take the time to write. I always think that I should be doing something else-- reading with Bryce or painting with Annie or trying to get Isaac to say more than "da" and "ball." Whenever the kids come to hunt me down and I'm in the study, furtively typing, I feel like I need to turn off the computer and be a better mom. But when I'm doing the mom thing, I feel like I'm operating at 50% of my powers, if that makes sense. Putting beads in pony hair or setting up a train track doesn't engage my mind like writing does. I thought that having more children would make me so busy that I wouldn't need the intellectual stimulation that I get from writing, but it doesn't: Bryce is in school for seven hours a day, Annie is pretty independent, and Isaac is the world's easiest baby. I feel like I can attend to all of his needs and he's happy without me in his face all the time. Of course, I felt very differently when I was trying to write my master's thesis five years ago with a fussy, demanding infant who spent 16 hours a day bouncing on my hip, but I'm not in that stage any longer.

So I guess I'm wondering if my desire to write or do something productive with my brain is justifiable? Will my kids be ok if they're neglected a little bit? A case in point: Isaac, suffering from the triple-whammy of teething, a cold, and three booster shots woke up from his nap while I was writing this ramble. I got him some Tylenol and a drink, cuddled him for a while, and then he scooted away from me on the couch and tucked in to his juice. When he wants me to pay attention to him, I do, at least most of the time.

I guess part of the issue is that my writing right now seems very unfocused. The poems, though fun, are silly. I know that they're not that good, and I also know that I know nothing when it comes to writing poems, but they're fun to do anyway. I don't think I'd be a good fiction writer.

The blog is fun, but also sort of silly and not too serious. I have an ambition to do something, but I'm not sure what it is.

So until then, I'll be typing along, trying to figure it out. And my kids will probably be figuring out how to raise each other.

-originally published 1/18/06