The Mind-Baby Problem

I’ve considered myself a writer for a long time—only a few years shy of how long I’ve been a mother. But for all the writing I’ve done—hundreds of thousands of words—I’m only publishing my debut novel this year. It’s a book I’ve rewritten many times. A book which could possibly have been done years ago. But you have to choose your top priorities, sometimes on a daily basis and especially if you have kids. And often, the demands of children take that spot, no matter their age.

Your top priority—your aim in life—does and should consume you. It’s your highest value and its success is your deepest desire—it’s the thing that sets your soul on fire and keeps your motivation burning. A primary preoccupation that simmers in the background even when you’re not aware.

This is art to the artist; this is the child to his mother.

The artist-mother, then, becomes split, her attention fractured between her art and her child—a duality of preoccupations in constant battle.

Consider the writer and her process. Graham Greene, in his novel ‘The End of the Affair,’ writes one of the best descriptions of the fiction writing process I’ve come across:

“So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one’s days. One may be preoccupied with shopping and income tax returns and chance conversations, but the stream of the unconscious continues to flow undisturbed, solving problems, planning ahead: one sits down sterile and dispirited at the desk, and suddenly the words come as though from the air: the situations that seemed blocked in a hopeless impasse move forward: the work has been done while one slept or shopped or talked with friends.”

And yet for the writer-mother, her child, always in limbo, always in need of some immediate attention—a child whose very life depends on that attention—must take priority, even in the subconscious. There is some part of the mother that is always listening: for the baby’s cry or the overly-long silence, for the shattering of glass or the thump of a fall, for the ding of the babysitter’s text or the buzz of the school’s phone call. The mother’s subconscious cannot flow undisturbed like Greene’s writer, working in the background. It’s already busy with the demands of nurturing a life.

How, then, does a mother balance her art creation with the care of her children? Can she learn to switch back and forth, bringing one into total focus while ignoring the other? And does it work? Can you split your attention between two passions and do justice to both?

Be Like The Bird

Out on a limb or winged for flight? On creativity and vulnerability.

Be like the bird who

Halting in her flight,

On a limb too slight,

Feels it giving way beneath her

Yet sings

Knowing she has wings

- Victor Hugo

Songs of Twilight 1877

When my children were born it was both a literal and metaphorical splitting open — and it took me years to smooth out all the jagged edges and rawness of being a mother.

It began with an emergency C-section during the birth of my first child — the literal splitting open. While the doctor’s scalpel dug deep and her hands pressed hard to do the work of forcing my baby out of my womb — I lay there, feeling nothing but a slight pressure — because the doctors had numbed me.

But there was no anesthesia for what came next: that metaphorical splitting open — the moment you fall in love with your new baby and the moment you realize that his fragility makes you vulnerable, too. It’s as if someone has taken out a vital organ and handed it to you without any guidance except the admonition: “Take care of this — your life depends on it.”

In the months that followed, my initial realization crystalized into a stinging anxiety that I would remain exposed in this way for a long time. Perhaps for the rest of my life. The sharp edges of this seeming powerlessness snagged on everything — pierced every action and every decision with fear, doubt, paralysis. Fear that I would make the wrong decision and doubt in my own judgement — because I could not know everything in a world that is often unpredictable. Books and experts were no help; no one agreed on anything, no one had the one right answer. And what’s worse, they seemed to discover a new danger daily.

But all acts of creation seem to involve — no, to demand — this vulnerability; your creation, whether child, art, or scientific hypothesis, is born of you but must be released out into the world to thrive or not.

So how do the creators of the world release their creations into the world? How are you supposed to keep creating and leaving yourself open to the rawness? How can you face those moments, hours, days, when you can’t find the evidence to convince yourself that you can trust the universe to take care with your creation? You fear that your child will be bullied or hurt, or your writing misunderstood and reviled, or your scientific grant revoked because you insisted on studying an unpopular facet of reality. In short, how can you live with this kind of vulnerability constantly?

But perhaps vulnerability is not the right word for it — and this is where the problem lies. Most definitions of vulnerability are about being defenseless, open to attack, unprotected in some way. Is one defenseless, though, as mother or artist or scientist? My epiphany came when I realized that I could learn not to be defenseless.

The bird on the branch in Hugo's poem is secure not because she believes that the branch can’t break, but because she knows that if the branch does break, she can use her wings to keep from falling to disaster. She is not defenseless; she is not vulnerable — she is confident because she knows how to fly.

And so what all acts of creativity actually demand is confidence — earned from understanding that the world is a knowable place and that you can gain the knowledge you need to act when hardships arise. You can guide your child through the bullying if it happens or help him recover when hurt. You can defend your writing or be persuasive that your scientific theory merits study. Branches often break — but with work you can learn to fly.

Portraits of the Artist as Mother

Book Review: The Baby on the Fire Escape: Creativity, Motherhood, and the Mind-Baby Problem

by Julie Phillips

This is my version of a book review -- a snapshot that includes a quick overview and what to expect. If this piques your interest, you can find in-depth reviews online for further reading.

The Basic Idea:

Each chapter of the book is more or less a short biography of a famous artist and mother, with a particular emphasis on how being a parent impacted the art — the making of the art, the themes of the artwork, and the amount of art produced. In many cases, we are also shown the impact of the art and art-making on the child and their relationship to their artist-mother.

The Upshot:

If you’re a mother and an artist, it is interesting to read about the ways various artist-mothers made it work and the ways they didn’t make it work (children left behind, broken relationships, artworks abandoned) and how societal norms impacted their lives. There’s also an element of you’re-not-in-this-alone; seeing how difficult it has been for these women can be helpful when you’re feeling like you can’t make it work.

The Takeaway:

Though not new, the takeaway is important -- an artist needs time alone to devote to her work (see, for example, Virginia Wolfe’s "A Room of One's Own"), and that time has to be wrenched away from the demands of mothering. It will, however, make you think about your own life, and perhaps highlight aspects of the parenting-artist life that you need to consider more deeply.

Read It If:

You’re an artist and a parent, or thinking of becoming an artist-parent, or if your partner is one.

Selected Quotes:

“This is the baby on the fire escape… the precarious situation in which the child is just far enough out of sight and mind for the mother to have a talk with her muse.” pg 11.

“Art is supposed to be about this kind of intensified experience of life… And that is totally what raising kids does to you, too… Everything becomes heightened, and the range of experience becomes so much greater.” Justine Kurland, pg 116.

“What you have to learn to do is pay complete attention to two things at once.” A.S. Byatt, pg 241.

All quoted page numbers from: Phillips, Julie. The Baby on the Fire Escape: Creativity, Motherhood, and the Mind-Baby Problem. W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.