Any Other Mother

Seed Pod Post: How the library made me ordinary.

I took something of an unplanned hiatus over the last few weeks. I have a post lined up for later this week explaining why I’ve struggled to get back to this space, but I wrote the following essay as part of the

SmallStack

SeedPod project and scheduled it to go out before I knew I was going to drop off the face of the virtual world for a month.

I’m grateful to share this with you and to be a small part of SmallStack’s initiatives, and I encourage you to check out all of the other wonderful writers who have been contributing. The theme is “libraries,” and there have been so many beautiful posts describing what libraries mean to people, the role they’ve played in their lives. This small seed of a story is mine.

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In many aspects of my life I strive to be extraordinary. My therapist could outline a dozen reasons for this— I’m trying to make up for the adolescent years I spent feeling terrible about myself, workaholism is inherited and/or learned, I’m fueled by anxiety and ambition almost to the point of aneurism. But there is one area of my life where, for nearly a decade, I only ever wanted to be ordinary.

I live in a small town 35 minutes outside of Philadelphia. The demographic is slowly shifting, but a decade ago, I was an outsider amongst my town’s population— especially with local parents. Where most of the mothers at the kids’ preschool were blonde waifs with monthly hair appointments at the local overpriced salon, I stuck out with my towering height and the fact that I couldn’t afford winter boots let alone regular haircuts.

They shopped at Athleta and Lululemon. I shopped on sale at Torrid. They had husbands and Honda Odysseys and iPhones. I had no car, no phone, and no partner. When they planned weekend trips to the beach while standing outside of the preschool during afternoon pickup, I eavesdropped and imagined what it would be like to pack a bag in my own kitchen, load it in to the trunk of my own car, and take off for a day of sand and sun. Their lives seemed breezy and uncomplicated. They had ownership of them in ways I craved. I wanted, more than anything, to be just like them.

My biggest source of anxiety was the knowledge that my lack of resources meant a lack of access and opportunities for my kids. They wouldn’t grow up exploring soccer and baseball and chess club and art groups if I couldn’t pay the registrations fees and transport them to practices, and I worried that this would translate into a larger injustice— that they wouldn’t have the privilege of exploring their individual identities during their formative years. I wanted, more than anything, for them to have the same access and privileges as their peers.

Our community is more ‘allowing’ than ‘inclusive.’ It wasn’t until Jack entered second grade that I met another single mom at his school. As recently as two years ago, the elementary school was still assigning “Mom and Dad” projects for Back to School nights and holiday celebrations. If you are a struggling parent, particularly a single parent, your options here are as limited as your resources.

For example, fees for the local baseball team climb up to $300, gear costs extra, and there is no public transportation to many of the fields. Weekly after school chess clubs are $200 for six months of sessions, but there is no late bus to transport kids home if parents aren’t able to pick them up.

I pieced together help from family, freelancing, and grant programs over the years, but it was always a stretch. I watched the other parents sign their kids up for hockey and snowboarding and rock climbing, activities that were completely out of our reach, and felt myself sink into the muck of my inadequacies.

A friend frequented the library reading groups and activities with her daughter, and she often invited us to join. We started attending weekly reading groups, but the programming was extensive and we quickly added LEGO playtimes, coding workshops, and arts and craft circles to our schedule. There were mommy and me yoga classes, comic clubs, therapy dog sessions, writer’s groups— and absolutely everything was accessible to us.

At the library, it didn’t matter that I didn’t yet have a car or a phone or that I swiped a SNAP card at the grocery store. I didn’t have to worry about buying my way in. When I directed my kids to the LEGO bins arranged around tables in the children’s section, I was on even ground with every other parent browsing the picture book stacks. My kids could participate in the same activities as every other kid there, and it was a relief to be in a space where my means were not a barrier to their access. The library was the only space where I felt gloriously ordinary.

The small children who once ran on quick little legs through the shelves and pushed their chubby fists into bins of plastic bricks have grown into teenagers who join clubs at school and walk themselves home after, even though we own a Subaru outright and keep the gas tank filled. We can afford their interests now, but I’m reminded daily of the times when I couldn’t. I don’t take a single dollar I spend on them for granted.

I’ll never forget the relief the library brought us at a time when it felt like I was squeezing us into narrow spaces, trying so hard to belong. I strive to contribute to my local libraries even as our dependence on them has eased- I frequent their book sales and contribute to their fundraising drives. I attend author events and refer people to programming when I think they might be interested. And each time I pass a branch of our local library system, there is a whisper in the back of my mind, a quiet reminder: you belong.

Numa at the library- her favorite place to rest during walks around town.