I finished reading Jennifer Egan’s “The Candy House” last weekend, my first read of the new year.
It was a wonderful book, featuring interlinked stories of characters who grapple with a brave new world where people can upload their unconscious onto “memory cubes” for all to see.
Yeah, at times it was a bit strange. But there was a part of the book that’s stayed with me. It’s towards the end of the novel, when an aging mother, Susan, is reflecting on her role in the lives of her now adult children. Here goes:
“Susan was haunted by the gap between the sensation of three boys climbing her torso like a tree, combing sticky fingers through her hair, muttering into her ears—and the constraint of adulthood: How are you, honey? You look a little tired. Is there anything I can do? How about a hug for your old mom?
If she’d had an inkling, back then, of the ache this constraint would cause her, she would never—not once!—have said, “Let go of me, boys, I just need a minute,” and shaken them off. She would have held still and let them pick her clean, understanding that there would be nothing better to save herself for.”
I haven’t been able to get that last sentence out of my head. As a parent of young children, I feel that way all the time, constantly searching for an unoccupied moment. And I think it applies to other parts of my life, too. How many daily tasks and responsibilities do I see as burdensome now, only to find them later in life such scarce blessings?
The frantic morning rush, endless loads of laundry, smudged windows, dishes to wash, toys to pick up, grocery lists—how to appreciate, how to find joy, in these daily tasks?
