Jasmine had four children. Now that her job raising them was done, she spent her days reading on the internet and taking classes in one fascinating topic or another. She worried about having enough money and energy to fix up the crumbling house in which she lived. She worked at the local 7-11, certainly not a job matching her illustrious credentials in physical geography, nor a job promising much in the way of either income or job-satisfaction. Her feet hurt and her leaden, slightly varicosed legs were not really up to standing at a counter. But she needed cash, so not working was not an option.
Way back when, she had earned various degrees, one after the other, but had then given up academia in favor of home-making. That word certainly described what she had been doing for the past twenty-five years much better than “stay-at-home-mother,” a more insulting term than had probably ever been invented. It certainly did not capture the multitude of activities that fit into a given day, all the many roles that such a woman took on: dresser, shopper, cook, laundress, driver, cleaner, bather, server, not to mention the more important roles: manager, educator, teacher, event planner, referee, judge, pastor. She had not only managed the physical and mental needs of five individuals plus herself, but she had maintained the emotional sphere that contained them all. Just as the dining table needed constant tweaking if it were not to become cluttered with stuff, so too the emotional space required constant attention if it were not to become choked. Although she herself favored calm, peaceful emotions, she was not the kind of mother who suppressed emotional expression. The emotions could be expressed, and then it was her job to help the kids work them through.
When her kids reached adolescence, the strategies she had used to maintain calm and order started to fail. Jasmine didn’t understand what she was doing wrong, but she knew that a large share of the blame for the mean and ugly atmosphere that was evolving lay on her husband. He egged the children on, joined them in their mean rants against stupid society, and even started mocking her desire for civility. Their once-sacred dinner times, the dinners she had been so conscientious about getting on the table every night at six-thirty against all logistical odds, the dinners that had stood at the epicenter of the family life, those very dinners degenerated into adversarial boxing matches, each child vying for who could say the most upsetting thing. They fought like deranged cats among themselves, but at the table, it seemed that they joined forces and sought to fight her. She couldn’t respond. How could she enter such inane discourse? Why did their father support it? She pursed her lips and fell silent. The kids knew her so intimately, however, that she didn’t really need to speak. They read her responses all over her face.
But adolescence had now passed. The husband had been divorced. Some of the kids had moved out, and some still lived at home. The youngest had done the unthinkable: found Jesus, married a placid spouse and was starting a new home. But the rest were, to a one, troubled and unhappy. Their lives lacked purpose or serious jobs or even plans for the next day, not to mention the future. None of them were using their expensive educations in any way. They seemed to want to stay inside on the internet, unless they were out and about procuring drugs, drinking, attempting suicide, pursuing “self-care,” and hanging out with similarly idle friends. They certainly didn’t eat dinner with their mother, to whom they barely spoke Instead, they cooked haphazardly for themselves, not cleaning up their kitchen messes for days.
Jasmine knows she should kick them out, but cannot bring herself to do so, since she fears that they would get into worse trouble out in the world. The various interventions she has tried have been successful, but only temporarily. A specific problem gets solved, and she rejoices that the child is liberated from an evil. But then, after what seems like no time at all, the problem is not only returned, but is joined by more problems. Intervention, even about cleaning burnt frying pans, does not seem to work. Still, she does not understand their lack of ambition. It is as though they are all living in a state of suspended animation, waiting for life to start.
This direly depressing story has no end. Jasmine wishes that some sea change would come over her household, that some divine makeover would occur. She spends plenty of time thinking over how she might have done her home-making and child-rearing differently, but mostly she just wishes those simpler days would return. Perhaps the sea change will arrive. In the meantime, this dreary story just continues, repeating itself day after day.
