Page 95 of Books and Hookups

I let out a shocked bark of a laugh. “Thanks. The chair is good.” I sank into it, wincing at the dull ache in my back that had started this morning. I propped my notebook on the arm and got out my phone. “Mind if I record our conversation?”

“Not at all.” She settled back onto the sofa. Her mostly white hair had short natural curls. Her brown skin was lightly wrinkled around her eyes and neck, with a sprinkling of darker freckles across her cheeks. She wore a comfortable-looking purple caftan with white leggings underneath and a pair of red slides. I wished I could get away with wearing a caftan. That flowy garment would’ve solved at least eighty percent of my pregnancy wardrobe problems.

But I wasn’t here to covet her outfit. I had an hour—make that fifty-five minutes—to get Dr. Dunne’s perspective on women’s legacies.

“Dr. Dunne?—”

“Dottie,” she reminded me gently.

She’d forced a smile out of me. “Dottie. What’s your legacy?”

“Am I limited to only one?” She chuckled.

“I suppose not. Though I’ve talked to a lot of women who’ve focused their efforts on one thing. Politics, business, family. Some of them have said they make more progress when they’re working on a singular thing than if they try to advance multiple interests.”

“Respectfully, I have to disagree with those women. I’m many things: a scholar, a teacher, an author, a mother, a grandmother, an auntie, a friend. I plan to leave behind many things. My scholarly research. My book.” She waved at the copy poking out of my bag. “My children. And many memories, I hope.”

“But your book,” I argued. “Over forty million copies have been sold. That’s a massive legacy.”

“It’s true,” she said. “I hope my book has helped those mothers feel better about themselves. That they’ve gone on to be the best parents and grandparents they can be as well as the best workers and volunteers and professionals they can be. You see”—she leaned in closer—“women can be more than one thing. I know, I know…” She waved a hand. “Men like to be known for one thing: their careers. They think the rest of their lives are irrelevant.”

That was what my dad thought. He focused all his energies on his research and publishing. He never talked publicly about being a husband or father. Though, I supposed, whether he talked about it or not, it was part of his identity. And whether or not he was proud of me, I was part of his legacy.

“But,” she continued, “being a parent is anything but irrelevant. That’s why, when a father takes paternity leave or shows up in his work clothes to his kid’s soccer game or makes a video about doing his daughter’s hair, he’s a hero. Whereas a woman who does the same things is only doing what’s expected of her.”

I thought of all the times I’d taken my mother for granted. When she’d sat for an hour in the car line to pick me up from school. When she’d been the cookie mom for my Girl Scout troop. When she’d shown up not only to the big things like graduations and award ceremonies and band concerts but to the small things like elementary school pancake breakfasts, pediatrician visits, and days I was home with a cold or incapacitating menstrual cramps. It was what I’d thought she’d been forced to do.

Or was it? I’d always assumed she resented giving up her scholarly career because I would have. But I’d never asked how she felt about it. If she’d asked my father to give up anything. If she’d done exactly what she wanted in life…or not.

“Here’s why I wrote my book.” She paused until I looked up from my notebook. “I wanted to give women the confidence, and the permission—not that they need it, but in case they do—to be a mother. To set aside that time, whether it be a few minutes a day or years of their lives, to create that special legacy in their children. Do you have fond memories of your mother?”

“I…I do.” The times she’d stroked my back and held my hair back when I’d had stomach flu. Her proud smile when I’d bounced up to her at my graduation, utterly failing at looking cocky and cool. The old-school scrapbook she’d made with yellowing newspaper clippings of my work. Although I’d acted like I didn’t care, I did. She’d made me feel loved. Like I was enough. Like I was worth the sacrifice.

But was I? I would never be a mother like her. If I devoted one hundred percent of my life to this baby, to anyone, the spark that made memewould dim a little more each day until there was nothing left.

“What if…” I cleared my throat. “What if I’m the one who shows up mid-soccer game? What if I’m the kind of mother who doesn’t know how to do her daughter’s hair? What if I yell sometimes? And what if I toss out my kid’s finger paintings? Will I be a terrible mother?”

“There are some people out there who aren’t good parents. Who can never care for another person because they’re too wrapped up in themselves. But you don’t seem like that kind of person. You care about people. You’re writing a book about other women’s legacies. You’re asking the right questions. I think you’ll be an excellent mother.”

I relaxed back into the chair, but my back twinged, so I sat up straighter. “Is that your legacy, a lifetime of helping people become better parents?”

“I suppose if I had to narrow it down to a single legacy, that’s what it would be. To borrow from Mr. Whitman, people, including parents, contain multitudes. Parenting can be a thankless job. And whether or not a person is employed outside the home, mothering is also a full-time job. We should celebrate it however we can. If my book helps people realize how miraculous, how beautiful motherhood can be—no matter if a mother chooses to pursue other interests or not, whether they do it alone or with a partner or rely on friends, family, or staff—then I consider it a success.

“Now,” she continued, “tell me about your book. How’s it going?”

“Not great.” My voice cracked. How could she lay truth on me like that and expect me to talk about my sorry excuse for a book, which would never touch as many people as hers?

“Give yourself some grace. You’ve got time.” She sipped her coffee like she had all the time in the world.

The unfairness of it all walloped me like the winter wind. “Time? I don’t have the luxury of time. I’m at T minus five days.” I pointed at my belly. “If I don’t finish this book by then, I’ll never finish it.”

“Won’t you?” Her gaze speared me. “You don’t seem like a quitter. The baby will change your life, but it won’t change who you are inside. You’re dedicated to your work. You’ll finish.”

My eyes itched and burned, and when I rubbed them, my fingers came away wet. “Goddamn pregnancy hormones,” I muttered.

“They help you get in touch with who you really are, Lucie. To care. And that’s what mothering is about.” She held out a tissue.

When I reached for it, my back twinged again. I rubbed it, then blotted my eyes.

---