Fwd: just a mother

[Brennon Davies <brdavies@globalcenter.net>]

>Subject: just a mother
>Date: Tue, 27 Jul 99 06:25:07 -0700
>x-sender: davies@pop.primenet.com
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>From: davies <davies@primenet.com>
>To: "Annette Olsen" <olsenga@brigham.net>,
>        "Cheryl Sanders" <cmomgo@hotmail.com>,
>        "Brennon Davies" <brdavies@globalcenter.net>,
>        "Joe Oliver" <joliver@inficad.com>
>
>A few months ago, when I was picking up the children at school, another 
>mother I knew well rushed up to me.  Emily was fuming with indignation.  
> 
>"Do you know what you and I are?" she demanded.  before I could answer 
>and I didn't really have one handy--she blurted out the reason for her 
>question.  It seemed she had just returned from renewing her driver's 
>license at the County Clerk's office.  Asked by the woman recorder to 
>state her "occupation."  Emily had hesitated, uncertain how to classify 
>herself.
> 
>"What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you have a job, or are you 
>just a . . .?"
> 
>"Of course I have a job," snapped Emily.  "I'm a mother."
>"We don't list 'mother' as an occupation . . .'housewife' covers it," 
>said the recorder emphatically.
> 
>I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same 
>situation, this time at our own Town Hall.  The Clerk was obviously a 
>career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high-sounding title, 
>like "Official Interrogator" or "Town Registrar."
> 
>"And what is your occupation?" she probed.
>What made me say it, I do not know.  The words simply popped out.  "I'm a 
>Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations."
>The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair, and looked up as 
>though she had not heard right.  I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing 
>the most significant words.  Then I started with wonder as my pompous 
>pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official 
>questionnaire.
> 
>"Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in 
>your field?"
> 
>Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, 
>"I have a continuing program of research (what mother doesn't) in the 
>laboratory and in the field (otherwise known as inside and outside).  I'm 
>working for my Masters (the whole darned family) and already have four 
>credits (all daughters).  Of course, the job is one of the most demanding 
>in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?).  And I often work 14 
>hours a day (more like 24.)  But the job is more challenging than most 
>run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are in satisfaction rather than 
>just money."
> 
>There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she 
>completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door.  As 
>I drove into our driveway buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was 
>greeted by my lab assistants--ages 13, 7, and 3.  And upstairs, I could 
>hear out new experimental model (six months) in the child-development 
>program, testing out a new vocal pattern.  I felt triumphant.  I had 
>scored a beat on bureaucracy.  And I had gone down on the official 
>records as somemore more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than 

>"just another . . ."
> 
>Home . . . what a glorious career.  Especially when there's a title on 
>the door.
> 
> 
>