MOTHERING

With Teenagers, Waiting, Hoping And Worrying

by Fern Kupfer

I had a friend in high school whose mother used to describe in colorfuldetail the events of my friend's traumatic birth. Two days of labor.Night following night of pain. Losing so much blood she almost diedright there on the delivery table. That kind of story.

This gruesome narrative was completed by a weary sigh. "And for thisI brought you into the world?" my friend's mother would ask. Of course,the question was rhetorical. The "this" referred to was sometransgression. Perhaps my friend had stayed out past curfew withoutcalling. Then she had dismissed her mother's concern with some disdain.Her mother would shake her head in disgust: "Two days of labor so Icould stay up half the night worrying about a daughter who never gives athought to her own mother?"

But I gave a thought to her the other night when the bell rang afterdinner and my husband called me from the kitchen. "Fern? Fern, could youcome here?" It sounded urgent. There at the door stood Mr. T., thefather of one of Megan's high school friends.

"Excuse me, please," Mr. T. said shyly, searching for the Englishwords. "My daughter Mai? She is here with Megan?" He rubbed his handstogether, shivering. Outside the wind chill was below zero.

My husband looked expectant, waiting with Mr. T. for me to producethe information. "Megan isn't here," I told him. "She has an art classtonight."

Mr. T. seemed relieved. "Oh, Mai is with Megan. They are in artclass together," he said.

"No," I told him. "Mai is not in this class." I began speakingwithout contractions for clarity. "I do not know where Mai is."

Mai's family has been in this country for some years. Long enoughfor the children to want shiny red cars and to speak like all the otherteenagers in the high school (like, you know . . . like, you know).Mai's parents are quiet and private people. Her mother doesn't drive.And I have only smiled and waved to Mr. T. when he has pulled up infront of our house to pick up his daughter. We have done a lot ofnodding but never have had a full conversation.

"Mai is not with Megan?" The light went from Mr. T.'s face. He is asmall, worn man. Cambodian. Vietnamese. I am not sure. There is apainful past that no one has ever spoken of. I have heard stories thatthe family had escaped by walking miles through jungle; the parents hadto swim with their children across a river in the dead of night. Mr. T.had the boys. The mother swam with baby Mai strapped to her back. Maiwas heavily drugged so she would not cry out and call attention to theirflight.

Many years later, when Mai was in an American junior high school andmade the honor roll, her mother cried and cried. For years she hadworried that the drugs she gave to sedate her baby girl had alsobrain-damaged her; the honor roll seemed verification enough that thiswas not the case.

This is the story I heard. Although not from Mai's parents. And notfrom Mai who only talks about cute guys and cool CDs.

Mr. T. looked at the frozen street. "It is dark now," he said, hisface lined with worry. "Usually she will call."

I invited him in, offered to phone other friends. "Probably, she'sat someone's house, talking, forgot about the time . . ."

Mr. T. shook his head. "I do not want to trouble you," he said,reaching for the door. I began to protest that it was no trouble at all,but he had already stepped outside. Before walking down the drive, helooked back to us, his mouth grim: "It is so hard," he said simply.

I turned to my husband, amazed at how quickly I could feel anger atsomeone else's child. "You swim across a river with a baby strapped toyour back and then she can't even make one lousy phone call!"

"Elb il um . . ." my husband began, a favorite saying of hismother's. This, loosely translated from my Lebanese mother-in-law: "Amother's heart is on her children . . . and a child's heart is on theworld."

Well, saying parenting is hard is kind of an understatement, don'tyou think? The worries about fevers and strangers and fast cars; stayingup half the night with a baby, listening to croupy coughs, testing forbreath; years later, staying up half the night, listening for keys inthe door, checking their breath (smoke? alcohol?).

Most of us who have given birth don't almost die following agrueling two-day labor. Most of us who have children don't haveharrowing escape-to-freedom stories, waiting for the sniper bullet aboveour heads.

Oh, but did we ever realize beforehand what a long delivery thisparenthood actually turns out to be? And what a long, long river thereis to cross?

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

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