Confession of a Humpback Mother

I live on a strict budget. It's true. I never spend more than I make, and I always pay off credit cards completely when the bill arrives. However, one simple website tempts me... and on several occasions, I've punched in the card numbers without knowing exactly how I would pay the bill. Lately, dear readers, due to circumstances I'm sure you're already aware of, I've been forced to come to grips with overcoming my pinpoint shopping addiction. And the first step is, of course, confession.

I am a Gymboreeoholic. Holding one of their coupons burns a hole in the coupon folder. Seeing a 60%-off sale message in my in-box quickens the pulse just a bit. Please, don't judge. Just give me this slight obsession without ridicule. Let me hang onto this cherished fault without seeking an intervention--yet. If confession is the first step, I'm not yet ready for what follows. And if I'm honest with my confession, I know I'm already planning a desperate look of what's new in the fall lineup when Gymbucks come due this Thursday. I know once I allow myself to click the link directing me to their front door, I've already caved, despite whatever justifications I tell myself: kids are always growing; the weather's always changing. Jeans get holes. Perhaps there is some truth to those reasonings, but if I'm really going to get help, I have to recognize that part of the hold Gymboree has is comfort.

When I slice open a freshly-mailed Gymboree box, crack open the carefully and individually packaged skirts, gymmies, sweaters, jeans, T-shirts, I feel comforted. At times, we all buy things we think will bring us peace, and how harmful can cotton really be? Ah... a knit jumper. Soft, striped leggings. Corduroy pants. They make me feel safe, like a favorite blankie, even if I can't wear the clothes myself anymore. Wrapping my kids in comfort, comforts me. Is this wrong? Is this perceived notion of safety and security misguided?

At the end of a long work day, once the family is wrapped in fleece or cotton contentment, I pull out another purchased luxury and I snuggle with the kids, in bed, to read it. Paper might not feel soft against your cheek; however, cut and printed with ink, it can also succor aching hearts. So here's my secondary, possibly not necessary, confession. Around two weeks ago, in a mangled and confused state of grief (while Duane had the kids), I visited Barnes and Noble and spent $100. Woah, I know--that might not be much to some of you, but to this mother on a budget, I had to suppress the numbers on the receipt to enjoy the simple satisfaction of the books. Ah... the books.

I like keeping shelves full of books in every room, including my kids' rooms. Just having them standing guard in my own personal library reminds me of something I once read in school:

We come to feel that the books we own are the books we know, as if possession were, in libraries as in courts, nine-tenths of the law; that to glance at the spines of the books we call ours [...] allows us to say, "All this is mine," as if their presence alone fills us with their wisdom, without our actually having to labour through their contents. (Manguel 245)

At times that physical ownership, the books on the shelf, the library, can make you feel empowered with knowledge or at least the promise of knowledge. And with that promise comes the hope that you can make it through today, tomorrow, and the months and years yet to come.

So, can money buy happiness or can books and clothes provide comfort, identity, direction? Is the promise of their support and sympathy misguided? I hope not entirely. They are certainly not the end-all answer to our grief, but perhaps they can give us a moment of peace to figure things out. Case in point: last night, half piled on top of each other, we read a section from The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Animals of the World (one of the Barnes and Noble purchases) on martens and weasels, nocturnal animals that hole up in hollow trees during the day and eat everything from berries and nuts to any meat they can catch, including both squirrels and frogs. According to author Tom Jackson, "They kill their prey with their long, curved claws and sharp teeth" (158). How can a ravenous and wild marten be comforting? Let me explain.

Sydney's new morning ritual--watching "Champions of the Wild" on Animal Planet--inspired the encyclopedia purchase. She wants to know where these animals live, what they eat, how they sleep, and where they fit into her world. Sydney is a child who doesn't bat an eye when lions bound on the rumps of antelope, biting and clawing their prey into submissiveness, nor when leopards tug their leaden dinners up neighboring trees, entrails exposed. I suppose she's seen plenty of pain at home, and I've come to realize that the animal world is less a horror and more a comfort, when you have the right perspective. Not all fathers stay with their children. Like humpback whales, many mothers in the animal kingdom raise their offspring alone. Others, like meercats, rely on the community. And weasels emerge at night to rip apart inattentive frogs. It's not a pretty sight, but that's life.

None of us want to sleep next to a weasel, yet there's comfort in knowing you're not the only absent- minded frog or lone humpback whale or any other number of bizarrely behaving animals in the world. You might be pathetic, but you're not alone. Ironically, when you've felt the rawness of life brush past you in your inner sanctum, there's comfort in seeing the crude and unedited as a real and natural part of life on Earth.

So, next time life claws you ragged, my latest suggestion is: pull on some soft gymmies, plump up the pillows, and snuggle down with a good book--one that doesn't sugarcoat the natural scenes of life. You don't have to spend a fortune, but sometimes even monetary purchases can provide consolation and insight.

Works Cited

Jackson, Tom. The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Animals of the World: A Guide to 840 Amphibians, Reptiles and Mammals from Every Continent. China: Fall River Press, 2009.

Manguel, Alberto. A History of Reading. New York: Penguin Putnam, 1996.