Dialing Into Life Support

by Fern Kupfer

Ever since college, I have lived far away from home-grown friendsand family ties. One of my secret delights for keeping in touch is tocall long distance before the evening rates go into effect. There issomething illicit about talking long distance in the middle of the day- spontaneous and delicious, like afternoon sex.

Should I be embarrassed to admit that I like talking on thetelephone - day and night? Embarrassed because it is sostereotypically female to gab on the phone, to spend time in idlechatter, so that I feel defensive when my husband comes back into theroom and looks incredulously at me as if to say (and sometimes heactually does say), "You're still on the phone?"

When I was a young mother, home with small children, I thought thetelephone a primary connection to my well-being, a life support. I usedto speak to my friend Janet at least three times a week, though she wasjust a mile out of town, a local call. We would gossip, give adviceabout thumb-sucking, exchange the number of a new baby-sitter. Often Iwould know by the sound of her voice if she and her husband had beenfighting again, if she was at that place she had come to with more andmore frequency - wanting a divorce. I would just say, "How arethings?" and she would know what I meant.

How bad does a bad marriage have to be before you make the split?And what if you had two children and not enough money and are scared tobe alone? We would talk about this before dinner on our kitchen phones,each of us chopping and shredding salads

I think of the phone as a way for young mothers to get together;being alone with children can be a difficult and isolating experience.My mother told me she used to take me out in a carriage and sit in apark in the Bronx with all the other mothers. But today, even on a sunnyautumn afternoon, you can walk a baby in a carriage in most suburbanneighborhoods for blocks without encountering a single soul.

Where have all the young mothers gone? Well, a lot of women have gone back to work,of course. The rest seem to be in cars, transporting children toswimming lessons, music lessons, going to the mall. Or they're home intheir own little nuclear nests, watching the kids play on the swing setsin their own fenced-in backyards. The American Dream.

In our town, teenagers congregate in the parking lot behind MainStreet. You can see them there most anytime, rubbing wax onto theircars, sitting on the hoods, joking with their friends. But where's thehang-out for young mothers in these times?

I have a romantic view of a more primitive life, a place where thereis a sense of community. I picture a group of women meeting in themorning down by the river's edge to wash clothes. As their childrenfrolic in the water, the mothers talk about sibling rivalry and toilettraining and husbands who won't share feelings; the women talk and talkas they scrub their clothes against the rocks. Then they go back totheir own huts, comforted that they are not alone with their problems.But no woman I know has a communal laundry experience.

Remember those "reach out and touch someone" ads? I believed them.Every word. Now I call my own mother to ask for her noodle kugel recipe,to tell her to read "The Stone Diaries," to let her know when we'recoming to Florida for a visit. I call my daughter to tell her that I love her. To hear those voices, so far away but there with me. All myadult life I have had astronomical phone bills. It is my oneextravagance. Other women can buy jewelry and designer clothes. I dialarea codes.

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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