For a moment there -- no more than a flash, really -- I resolved to be Ani DiFranco. My daughter was with me at the time; we were sharing a chair. It was late on a fall afternoon. Ani’s face loomed large in high definition; her sexy, block-toothed mouth sang "Hypnotized," softly, to my girl and me.
In the background, the bathroom sink kept gurgling like a fish was living in the pipes. It had been doing that for weeks. I almost didn’t notice it anymore. But right then, I resolved to finally do something about it -- even though I had no idea what. Ani would snake that drain, I thought, whatever that meant. Ani would command that plunger.
As soon as she stopped singing, I resolved to rise up, one hundred percent woman, and take control of that sink. And I would, just as soon as Ani stopped singing.
But before that could happen, my girl could not help but complain: "You take up too much of the chair!" Well, she had the girth of a six-year-old while mine was some thirty years wider. And I had no resolve regarding my weight, so she would really just have to make do. I felt Ani inside then -- oh, fortunate me -- a woman whose butt was not on her mind. So we shifted and argued, our own form of dance, while the sink went glub-glub, glub-glub.
Oh, dear God, I thought. What was in those pipes? But Ani was not to be cowed; my borrowed strength seemed strong enough. And besides, the song kept on. I had more than a minute to go.
And in that small time, Ani sang to me as she always did about having strength in a fragile world. She sang all about being found, feeling rain, homesickness, hands, loss, love, and understanding -- and motherhood, surprisingly, as she never had before. But I can’t hear about birds anymore and not think back to birth: pink things, featherless, and working mouths. I was grateful for the memory; I resolved to be a better mom. I kissed the part in my baby’s hair; I took a deep breath and then lifted my feet to send the chair spinning around. My time, I knew, was on the wane.
Still, I took a moment and wondered how Ani felt about birth and all that comes after. I knew that she’d had abortions and I knew that she’d had a girl. She was a mother now, like me. She had a girl, and so did I. But she was out crafting cathedrals while I was stuck vacuuming caves. And it ached, I guess, that difference. So I resolved to be bigger and braver in life: one bold and bad goddess-type mama. I thought I heard Ani approve.
I could also still hear my sink, though, which was not the best of signs. Oh, Ani, I begged, still mortal it seemed. Oh, please, don’t leave me now.
The chair had stopped spinning by then, and the song was starting to end. The notes were growing quieter and Ani was breaking a smile. I was just about to ask my girl what she would like to do, an act of better motherhood, and was resolved to go along. She could have chosen stuffed animal theatre and I would have gone all in. I was preparing myself and my pink-cheetah voice when she handed me a tissue -- one from a pack that had been free at a grand opening -- on which she had written this green-marker note: I see love inside you, Mom.
So, it hadn’t been Ani after all? Well, that changed just about everything. If the chair had stopped, the room was still spinning merrily by.
It was then that I mustered my meager force and resolved to do nothing at all. I would stay just as I was, barely sharing a chair with my kid; I would stay that deeply in love. I would choose a new video, maybe, or not. I could just sit there instead, hypnotized, enjoying the song of the fish in my sink. Except that I couldn’t do that -- not exactly. I felt obligated by a previous resolution to do just one thing. And no, I can’t say why only one stuck. Regardless, I rose.
I was one hundred percent woman. I was as goddess-y as any bold mama could get. I was in possession of the bottled equivalent of a vat of acid. I would pour that down the sink until the entire sewer system either opened up or turned, at last, to stone. As for the fish, I guessed that I would pray. What else could I do? The thing wasn’t real. I was. And I needed my mind back in ink, my soul back in shape, and my kid right there at my side.
It’s been a while now since that day, but I remain grateful for a string of moments like a paper chain. And here’s what I try to remember: how it’s lovely to be sung to, but that it’s better, really, to sing.
Monica Crumback’s essays have appeared in numerous publications including Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers, Skirt!, and Hip Mama. She lives in Michigan with her husband and daughter.
