I Am Nobody's Peach

Finally, finally we've reached the end of the spring semester--but not without several weeks' worth of Senior Seminar presentations. We had the usual variety of topics, ranging from media law to Stephen King to Miss America. There were excellent presentations and not-so-excellent presentations and downright awful presentations. Our students run the gamut.

The presentation that's sticking with me today, perhaps because it was one of the last ones we heard, came from a student who had done a psychoanalytic treatment of James and the Giant Peach. His basic argument seemed to be that, after losing his biological mother, James seeks mothering from the peach because he doesn't get it from his aunts--and because he gets what he needs from the peach, he's able to grow and prosper in healthy ways. One of my colleagues challenged this reading by suggesting that James doesn't grow as the result of climbing into the "womb" of the giant peach--that by the end of the story he's still living in the desiccated carcass of his "mother," Norman Bates-style, without having grown up at all. Separating from your mother is, after all, a necessary part of healthy adult life. Our student wanted to argue that, since we don't see James as an adult, all we can know is that he's happy and healthy where we leave him, which seems like the point the story wants to make.

Another colleague, however, pointed out that this dynamic isn't particularly kind to the mother/peach; essentially, she's just expected to give and give until she's sucked dry, at which point she becomes something completely different--a domicile--but still defined by the needs of her "child." Can we really claim that James grows into a well-adjusted person if what he's learned is that it's okay to use others for your own purposes, without thinking about what's best for them? The student's response to this question suggested that the noblest thing a mother can do for her child is to sacrifice herself entirely, and there's nothing unkind about that--it's just what good mothers do, and it's how healthy adults are produced.

This student and I have been butting heads in a relatively benign way all semester in the Senior Seminar course, but it took a good measure of restraint for me not to point out the utter absurdity of that argument. It's not new, of course. There are plenty of people who agree with him. But if they're right, then why are mothers directed to put on their own oxygen masks, in the event of a plane crash, before helping their children do the same? Because the airlines know what everyone else should, by now: a mother can't be helpful to anyone if she's unconscious (or, in the case of the peach, sucked dry of her vital juices.) She has to put herself first, not last, to be of any use.

Becoming a mother was the most liberating thing that has happened to me in my life. By liberating, I certainly don't mean lacking constraints; motherhood is, if nothing else, a long process of learning to be constrained by the demands of others. But those demands are liberating in their own way.

For example: when my daughter was only a few months old, I took her for a walk in her carriage one afternoon. Within the first few moments of our walk, a huge dog was bounding across the park toward us, off leash. I didn't know what to do. Running, I thought, would only encourage a chase--so I just stood still, hoping he'd lose interest in us if I didn't encourage his attention.

Instead, almost immediately, the dog stuck his head down into the carriage. I didn't wait to see whether he was going to harm my baby; I didn't worry that he was going to whip around and bite my hand off. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his front feet. By then his owner was running across the park toward us, yelling "It's okay! He won't hurt anybody! He's very friendly!" Still, I held on to the yelping dog until his owner arrived with his leash.

Even now, almost fifteen years later, I have no idea how I lifted that huge dog off his feet with one hand. But I know why I did it: becoming a mother had freed me of the fears that would have plagued me otherwise--fear of injury, fear of looking like a silly woman who's afraid of a friendly dog. I was the only person available to take charge of the situation, so I did.

In other words, I put myself first. I trusted my judgement and went into action on the basis of that judgement, without a second thought. If sacrifice is the act of being whatever our children determine they need, mothering is the act of deciding what's best for them, putting our judgement before theirs.

Children need whole, vibrant, thinking people in their lives. They need people to take charge when they're too young and small to do so themselves, but they also need people to offer guidance and sustenance when they're old enough to be more autonomous. The only way we'll have something to offer them at every point in their lives is to hold a part of ourselves in reserve at all times--to refuse to give our whole selves, ever.

I am nobody's peach. And I'm proud to say it.