Confessions of Misogyny

5/22. Eight years later I need to edit this, but nothing has changed f fundamentally. After my longest attempt to work with a women therapist, I realize I do much better with a male therapist.  She seems to be turning nto my mother. My four daughters would assure you that I am one of the worst misogynists they know. Having 5 younger brother was the most formative experience of my life. Until I became a mother at age 28, I would always join the circle of men, never the circle of women. I was positive the conversation would be more stimulating. I despise women's fashion magazines and all the talk of diets, hair, shoes, and makeup. Being forced to watch Sex and the City would be cruel and unusual punishment.

Spending a year in a Catholic girls college in Rochester was an alienating experience. My dad, my brothers, and I  were sarcastic and no one seemed to realize I didn't  mean it. One night my friends and I stayed up all night, discussing politics, sex, religion, life, death, etc. The rumor rapidly spread that we were gossiping about everyone on the floor. Learning from the college dean that "there was something in the nature of a woman that unsuits her for intellectual debate with men" elicited my jail break to being the only girl in the political science classes at Fordham. I talked them into admitting me as a sophmore the year they first admitted women as freshman. I was the first woman the Jesuits had taught.

I dropped out of Columbia Law School before I suffered permanent brain damage. Working in the female-dominated fields of public librarianship and social work was not a wise decision. I never can accept "that is the way it is" and "you can't do anything about it." I was perceived as a trouble maker. Being open about my manic depression doomed me.  When I am upset, I defend myself by getting more ascerbic and intellectual.  As my brothers 18 years younger observed, "you need crying lessons." But crying was tolerated in my home. I perceive that men enjoy gutsy women who giggle, smile, tease, humorously insult, and debate them  lots more than women do. I never flirt. I am alwalys the big sister.  Until last year, I have always gone to male shrinks.

My most successful social work job was working with a great group of seriously mentally ill guys who were absolutely trapped in the system. Some had been in jail; most had substance abuse problems. I never was so appreciated by a group of people in my whole life. They were  wonderful to hang out with. I excel at eliciting the sanity in crazy people and the craziness in apparently sane people. Undoubtedly I would have been better off working in a jail.

I also did extremely well with male gay clients. One told me I must have been a gay male in a previous lifetime I understand him so well. Another paid me the greatest compliment I got as a shrink: he said I was his only experience of unconditional love. We had a strong therapeutic relationship. Until I treated him, an Irishmen from an utterly abusive family, I never realized how Irish I was.

I have never been hassled on the street by a guy in my entire life. I do have a promiscuous smile. I am perfectly comfortable being the only women in a subway car full of men. African American men and immigrants tend to find older, curvier women attractive, which is lovely fun. In the early days of women's lib, women whined incessantly about street hassles. I wondered if I was the ugliest woman in the entire women's liberation movement. I often have long conversations with homeless men. One street person teased me that I was warm, friendly, approachable, happy to talk, sometimes generous depending upon whether I had exceeded my day's handout limit. " But I know you would turn me to stone if I messed with you." I've never had to attempt it. I project a big sister vibe.

1st Child, 2nd Child

This is from a graduate school paper on child development I wrote in 1977, when Anne was 4 and Michelle was 2. Michelle is younger in this photo.

I am still realizing to what extent the mother I am is shaped by the child I am mothering. When I had only one child, I congratulated myself for all of Anne's superior qualities and blamed myself for her troublesome ones. Since I've had 2 children, I've become remarkably more tolerant of other mothers and of myself. I've also grown to understand why my my mom, after mothering 6 kids, has always been quite skeptical of childrearing theories.

Since I belong to a unique Chelsea community where young parents support each other through babysitting cooperatives, cooperative playgroups and nursery schools, and mothers' support groups, I've had the chance to observe many children of similar ages interact with their parents. When I first moved here when Anne was 17 months, I was quick to correlate the children's characteristics with their parents' childrearing practices. Now I am humbly aware of how infinitely complex the whole question is.

The only dramatic change in our lives beween Anne's and Michelle's births was our move to Chelsea from the Upper West Side. We still lived on a high floor in an apartment with a terrace and spectacular views. Although I was still at home full-time and their dad was gone from 8 to 6, their day-to-day routine was completely different. When Anne was born, none of my NYC friends had children; consequently no one I knew was home during the day. To relieve my isolation, I frequently visited my parents and my husband's parents on Long Island. As a result, Anne had frequent contact with her grandparents and her teenage aunts and uncles, but very little contact with other babies and toddlers.

When Michelle was born, I was immersed in Anne's playgroup, with daily contact with 10 familes and their 2-year-olds. Monday to Friday Michelle was constantly exposed to the stimulation-bedlam of young kids. In fact playing with baby Michelle was playgroup's surefire activity when all else failed. On the other hand, I seldom visited Long Island; our parents and sibs came to visit us. Michelle's comings and goings are always tied to Anne's schedules.

In addition to having different daily routines, they had a different mother. After Anne's birth, I still did some free-lance editing. I kept wrestling with combining motherhood with my editing career. I almost accepted a 20-hour a week editing job when Anne was 9 months. By the time Michelle was born, I had wholeheartedly renounced publishing and was fully committed to full-time motherhood when my children were small. I had chosen working with young children and their parents as my future career. My expectations for myself and my baby had been transformed by what I experienced and by how I had grown during Anne's infancy. I was far freer to respond to my emotions and intuitions about Michelle. I had gained confidence in my own style of mothering and was no longer so swayed by "expert" opinion or my prior expectations of what kind of mother I should be. I was much more relaxed about introducing solids, long-term nursing, the family bed.

Michelle's relationship with me was hardly as symbiotic as my relationship with Anne during infancy. Anne was as much as part of Michelle's life as my husband and I were. Unless Anne was asleep, she was almost always in the same room when I nursed or played with Michelle. As soon as Michelle could reliably sit up, we bathed them together. Since Michelle was 8 months old, they've amicably shared the same room. I successfully diminished Anne's jealousy by involving her in every way possible in Michelle's care. I always read to Anne when I was nursing Michelle, since she hated playing in her bedroom by herself.

The result? Michelle's social skills seem far more sophisticated than Anne's were at 2. Sometimes she stays at Anne's cooperative nursery school when I am the helping mommy. She knows all the children's names, interacts warmly with them, participates fully in painting, block building, clay, water play, and dress up. She manages surprisingly well at meeting time and story time. She needs to establish eye contact with me fairly often, but she leaves me free to interact with the other children. At home she holds her own with her high-powered sister very well. As I observe her avoiding no-win confrontations with Anne, I try to imitate her skillful mixture of unmistakable self-assertion and judicious compromise. As Michelle chortles, "even Anne loves me."