My family and friends find it extremely amusing to remind me of a time when I used to question the necessity of having children. “They just weigh one down,” I would pontificate. How could one be impulsive or do anything spontaneous such as fly off to Europe with friends on a whim?

I can’t ever imagine giving up this freedom, I would famously say.

But I did, willingly, periodically lamenting what I gave up with the caveat, “but I got so much more in return!”

Then a few years ago, I joined my best friend for a girls' weekend in New York. It would be the first time I was away since my daughter was born. I flew to N.Y. on sheer euphoria, Ah! To be free and footloose once again!

But from the moment I landed, I missed my daughter so much I could hardly move a muscle. It was as close to a panic attack as you could get. I would have flown back immediately if it wouldn’t have seemed crazy.

How had I become this person who couldn’t even breathe when her child was out of range?
When my mother asked about my trip all I said was, “I’m never doing that again.”

And I didn’t - nixing any idea that even suggested a trip without kids.

That was over three years ago. From the sidelines I envied moms who went for business trips or girlfriend weekends and though they missed their children, seemed to do it without being paralyzed by some indefinable fear.

Now another friend has invited me to Las Vegas.

“Go,” says my husband, “it’ll be good for you. She was fine the last time and she’ll be fine this time, too.”

So, in the interest of showing that I have positively matured since my N.Y. trip, I agree. My friend and I have spent the last few days booking our hotels and flights and looking at our choice of shows on the Internet.

Should we go for some Cirque du Soleil extravaganza or magic show or concert? Or something Vegas-like and adult?

Wait a minute…what’s this?

“Thunder From Down Under!”

“A tasteful and titillating time for everyone. . . ” states the review.

Both tasteful and titillating? Well in that case. . . maybe I could be persuaded to enjoy a few days of freedom after all.

By Tania Malik

Labels: Best Friend, Cirque du Soleil, Europe, girls' weekend, Las Vegas, New York City, Tania Malik

Stumble This Post

Whenever people tell me how artistic my four-year-old daughter, Olivia, is, I instinctively think, “Anything but that.”

Maybe during the Renaissance, when artists had patrons and kings commissioned portraits; cathedral ceilings were blank canvases, literally, and manor houses had wall space to spare. Or even during the WPA: Sure it was a Depression and everyone was hungry, but at least the government was keeping a handful of muralists and photographers gainfully employed.

But to be an artist today is to suffer.

No job security, no career ladder, no 401(k). While everyone else is socking away a retirement, the painter is scrimping to buy art supplies and the writer is saving for a laptop; the performer is maxing out his credit cards to take classes in singing or acting or dance.

Unless one is lucky enough to be born into a trust fund, or marry a rich and generous spouse, all artists face a future of too-small apartments, necessary day jobs and daily, unending compromise. Why would I wish that on anyone, much less the girl I love more than any other in the world?

I spent ten years in New York City chasing my own artistic dreams. I wanted to dance on Broadway or at least in regional theater and write the Great American Novel on the side.

Instead, I slept on fold-out sofas in other people’s living rooms and supported myself as a legal proofreader on the night shift; I walked everywhere to save on subway fare and discovered that you could eat cereal for months on end and still survive.

By the time I woke up, exhausted, at thirty, everyone else I knew was married and living in the suburbs, a baby in arms and another one on the way.

But Olivia is sensitive, and I see that.

“Look at the moon,” was her first full sentence, as she patted a spot beside her on our front steps and pointed to the sky. “See pink” she said as the sun was setting. Once I observed that a shade of blue crayon looked happy and she nodded as she rolled it between her palms. “There are so many blues that are sad.”

Olivia is adopted so she hasn’t inherited my genes. But she’s my daughter, with the soul of a poet.

By Jessica O’Dwyer

Labels: 401(k), artistic, artistic daughter, By Jessica O'Dwyer, dancer, Great American Novel, New York City, poet, suffering artist

Stumble This Post