Can you be a good mom and a great writer?

Or, the pressure of the Good Mom Industrial Complex

It’s early morning in Connecticut. Once everyone else in my family wakes, I have to wash my daughter’s costume from her Aladdin performance last night in preparation for the final show today, prep her sleepover bag with Q-tips and the “after care ear piercing” treatment we got at Claire’s last weekend, then prep my own sleepover bag and readings for The Woodstock Book Festival that I’m leaving for today.

My daughter has been working hard for months on her school play. Four rehearsals per week soon transitioned into practice every night. Nina

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has the part of “Iago,” the duplicitous sidekick to Jafar. She is marvelous in this play. My husband and I saw it last night. He teared up when we ran to congratulate her after the show and found her bombarded by hugging friends as we waited to hand her a bouquet of flowers, kiss the face that I’d put parrot makeup on a few hours earlier.

Our local production of Aladdin. Thanks to all who helped.

Though I wasn’t one of the parents who worked tirelessly on this show—pitching in to source and tailor costumes, build sets, choreograph dance numbers, graphic design the program—behind the scenes, I did my part to support my daughter and keep her feeling confident. Running lines when she wanted to, making sure she had a healthy snack for each rehearsal, driving her to and from practices, re-watching Aladdin to pick up on the nuances of her character and then cheering her when she decided she wanted to create her own Iago voice, letting homework fall through the cracks because she had restricted free time— but what kid notices this? My mother did these same things for me when I was Nina’s age, and—as she always promised me—I didn’t realize how much thought and time goes into such daily acts of care until I had a child of my own.

The reason that I’m writing today is because we have a crisis in our home. My daughter has a matinee of Aladdin today—her last performance—and I won’t be there to see it. I have to drive to Woodstock to participate in day three of a four-day book festival I’m in. While my daughter isn’t exactly having a hissy fit about this, there have been enough “If you loved me” hints to assure me that she’s hurt. If you loved me, you’d see my play today. All the other parents will be there. Last year, you saw all my plays.

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When I noticed that today’s date was April 1st, I thought how deliriously happy it would make Nina if I ran into her bedroom this morning, woke her with a kiss and said, “April Fools! Of course I’m coming to your last show!” Instead: I’lll slip the Claire’s “after care piercing lotion” into her backpack with a note of congratulations, a reminder of my love. I’ll FaceTime her later to see how the final show went. All these things will pale in comparison to my absence in a fold-out chair. Nina will remember that empty spot I think, not how far I drove to the place that has the best flowers in our county, spent time picking out the right bouquet that would be meaningful to her for last night’s show.

I feel badly that my daughter feels bad about me missing today’s performance, but I don’t feel guilty. It took me decades to be able to live off my own creative writing, and in those decades I learned that I have to fight tooth and nail to defend not just my writing time, but my identity as a writer, because most people will want/need me to do something other than my art. From the minute I was presented with my long-legged, super sucker newborn, I realized that I now had the world’s most precious time suck in my arms. There would be no end to this baby’s needs, no end to the things she would want from me, expect from me, forget at school and need. Nina gives me a hard time about it, but I refuse to hide how important my career is to me. In the domestic framework I’ve set up and continue to fight for, my writing and my daughter are both tied for first.

But getting my daughter to understand that this framework is built from love and respect is a long, long game indeed. I believe if I model the example of a working creative who defends her time, sets boundaries, and is honest about what she wants and doesn’t want, then long-term, my daughter won’t be trampled by people who want to take and take from her, ask for favors that turn into unpaid labor, see her negotiating like a lamb when she should be negotiating like a lion. This will probably take two decades, or maybe it will take my own daughter one day having children to realize the values I’m trying to impart. Or maybe it won’t work.

So Nina will have an empty seat in the audience today where her mother should be. Maybe that’s what she’ll remember about the year she was in Aladdin, worked so hard to be funny in her part. Or maybe one day she’ll be talking to friends about the way that they were parented, and Nina will finally realize that while I wasn’t the kind of parent whose love language was sacrifice, I do have a love language. It can’t be easily summated, but it looks like giving quite a bit, but never so much that you disappear yourself.

I’m so proud of her. And I believe she knows it.

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If you happen to be in Woodstock, NY tomorrow, you can catch me at my polemic 1:30 panel. Otherwise, I’m in Chicago on Tuesday and I am super excited about the lecture I’m giving there. They are keeping registrations open basically up until the show starts. Send your friends! I don’t know a ton of people in Chicago so it always makes me worry whether I’ll have an audience or not.

What's on this week

Thanks for being here. And for listening. I’m off to Woodstock now. We’ll get back to our regular Opening Pages Intensive content soonish!

Hope you’re having a good weekend,

Courtney

1. This isn’t my daughter’s real name but it’s the name she chose for herself for my memoir, so I’m going to continue using it here in my Substack.