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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Eric: Hold your breath, 1946
An excerpt from "Why She Left Us."
By Rahna Reiko Rizzuto
[09/17/99]

Why they never told us
First novelist Rahna Reiko Rizzuto talks about the silence surrounding the Japanese internment camps, being "stealth Japanese" and writing herself into two children.
By Kate Moses
[09/16/99]

The things we carry
You have 30 minutes and two garbage bags: How do you pack for a disaster?
By Cynthia Gorney
[09/16/99]

Backtalk
"Ophelia Speaks," a book by teens for teens, talks back to adults who think they know what's up. This teen says it doesn't speak to her.
By Lillie Wade
[09/15/99]

The sound of soda
Last year I attended Rosh Hashanah at a race track -- this year my religious experience is carbonated, thanks to my son.
By Barbara Field
[09/14/99]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

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Are you longing for a child in your life? Or, on the other hand, are you longing for a break from your children? Like rain, jobs and phone calls, time with kids is unevenly distributed. Too often, it's feast or famine. But while many distribution problems are not soluble -- food and money come to mind -- this one has a cure.

Twelve years ago, I was dying for a kid to hang out with. My three sons were grown and my nest had been empty for several years. But my sons were not ready to have their own babies and they reacted poorly to hints that I wanted grandchildren. My friend Margaret also missed the presence of children in her life, though her situation was entirely different. Margaret had never had kids and didn't expect to. Like me, she had moved to California many years before, was divorced and lived alone. We had both so successfully escaped from our East Coast families that we had no relatives on this side of the country at all. The people Margaret and I spent time with at work or on vacation were all adults. But going to the circus or having Christmas parties with adult friends seemed flat. There was no wide-eyed wonder, no begging for popcorn, no inquiries about how Santa Claus could possibly fit down a chimney. Though the two of us could have signed up as Big Sisters, we didn't feel like undertaking so serious a commitment.

We just wanted a kid to play with sometimes. Margaret's friend Stephanie moved to California. A stressed-out single mom who taught school, Stephanie had two delightful children -- a shy little boy with big ears named P.K. and a hip, competent little girl named Pier, 3 and 5 years old. They had come here from Maine and, like us, they had no relatives around. So Margaret and I began taking Pier and P.K. out for occasional hamburgers or trips to the park. Stephanie was thrilled to have some time off from being a parent, and we got our kid-fixes, the special joys of being with the very young.

We had such a good time with Pier and P.K. that I asked two married friends, also transplanted Easterners, if I could borrow their daughter, Laure, a precocious, confident little girl, who was also 3. Since they had no relatives nearby, they were happy to let her come along. The kids took to this as easily as we did: They never showed the slightest reluctance to go off with us, they never asked for their parents and they never fussed. We loved having little ones to hug and carry around and play games with -- and, of course, we always returned them promptly when we were finished. Along the way, we added a few other children whom we especially liked, and some parents actually asked whether we would take theirs along too. Sometimes we said yes, but only if we enjoyed those particular kids.

Our first outings included beaches and parks, pizza parlors and burger joints. When December came around, I invited everyone to a tree trimming at my house. By then, Laure was 4. Evidently, this was the first tree trimming she had ever been invited to and she had had to give it some thought. I remember her opening my front door that afternoon, walking in and announcing proudly, "I am Laure Katz and I am Jewish." Margaret and I had assembled paints, cardboard, glitter and glue for the kids to make ornaments. Laure used the materials to make Stars of David and menorahs.

A favorite event was the Cirque de Soleil. The kids were enchanted with the contortionists and the clowns. I remember the thrill in the car when, driving home from the circus one night, Laure and another kid in the back seat named Matthew discovered that they had the exact same birthday. I also remember a Halloween party when Laure, dressed as a small orange pumpkin, leaped into my arms like a frightened baby monkey when a friend of ours in a gorilla costume walked in the door.

For four or five years, we had great times. Then, as the kids were starting to get too old to enjoy playing with us, everything changed. Stephanie, Pier and P.K. moved away to Arizona. Margaret married and got a dog. My oldest son married and produced two babies, the longed-for grandchildren. So the Borrowed Children faded away.

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